


Layton Sisters: Say Your 'Byes

by RocBaroque



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room
Genre: Alcyone Layton, Blood and Gore, Cisswap, F/M, Lucas Baker - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Rule 63, clueless crushes, concern trolling, implied Layton/Makepeace, terrible Yorkshire accents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocBaroque/pseuds/RocBaroque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months after the events at Forbodium Castle, DC Lucas Baker strives keep his partner safe from her past, her naysayers, and herself. But when a case drops that neither of the Alcyone Laytons can solve, can Lucas continue juggling the roles of detective, friend, and self-elected caregiver?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Constable's Concerns

Her internment in the hospital flickered by like time-lapse photography–objects moved of their own accord, people appeared and vanished, consciousness rolled in and out like the tide. Events shuffled themselves like a deck of cards, future sometimes preceding past. The only constants were the thick bandages tight around her chest, and the tepid fog of intravenous morphine.

It was impossible to tell how long it had been since first: opening eyes, finding familiar faces, parting cracked lips, delivering the verdict. Waking had felt like an imperative. She'd reached blindly for Henrik, held as tightly as she could to keep from drifting off, and told them what she had come back to say.

_I shot Diane Makepeace._

The light filtered through her windows in fiery reds and oranges. Consciousness was sudden, painful, like a record scratch across her formless fever dream. She realized she was sitting upright, that the IV had been removed from her arm, and that someone was rustling pages just to her right. Slowly, stiffly, she turned her head.

Detective Lawson thumbed through a well-worn pulp novel, reading glasses perched on a red, crooked nose broken four times in the line of duty. She started at the sound of creaking vertebrae, thunderous in the quiet of the hospital room. "Eh? Al?" The pulp novel was set aside and glasses carefully rested on the cover. They were delicate, subtle, everything Lawson was not. "How you feelin'?"

It took her too long to process the question. The answer felt complicated. "Alive." She didn't mean for it to sound uncertain, but her voice was rusty from disuse.

"Well, you've been sleeping like the dead." She grinned at her own joke, leaned back in her chair. "That was a close one, Al, it really was."

One tentative hand found the edge of her gown, rubbed the rough gauze wrapping her chest. She still felt half a world away, like she were slowly gaining form from the mists of opiates. What had happened? All she remembered was...

"I shot–"

"I know." Lawson's face was hard, cast in bronze. "It's all you've said since they brought you here." She ran a hand over her thick black hair. "Come back from the dead just to throw yourself into the fire."

She didn't quite know what to say to that, so she dropped her hands into her lap, studied them.

"Henrik– _neither_ of us want to believe it. Al, what you're saying–there are some serious implications." Lawson rubbed the back of her neck, her dark eyes flitting about the room. "We can conduct an investigation and get this sorted out."

The memories flitted back to her, pain-bright and drug-vague. The weight of the glock in her hand, the recoil, the blood. The certainty. The finality. Cold calculation, the equation balancing on both sides with Diane's blood puddling on the stones.

"An investigation–" She cleared her throat, desperate to be free of that grinding sound. "An investigation would be unnecessary." 

Lawson deflated with a loud exhale. "There'll be an inquiry," she said finally. "They're already asking questions about–about how close you were, if there wasn't more... you know." The detective has the decency to look chagrined. "Going on."

"More? With Diane?" She blinked.

"I guess I should call a nurse," Lawson grumbled, jumping up to jab at the call button.

"I'm sorry, I've made you uncomfortable."

Lawson froze, as though the sentiment had grown hands and slapped her. "I don't want to see you raked over the coals for this," she surrendered, though it was clear she had more to say. "You're–you're likely to be demoted. Unless the two of us can do something to keep this fiasco under control."

"You, and Henrik?"

The detective gave another wince. The flashes of time-lapse hospital dreams came, and she realized Henrik was missing from most of it.

The pain in her chest broke through the morphine, a dull ache between the ribs, and she covered the hole with one trembling hand.

"Henrik's been busy with a parallel case," Lawson was saying, rushed, airy. "But he's got his head in this one. We're doing the best we can, but you gotta give us more to work with." Awkward, her partner reached to squeeze her other hand, a gesture more foreign than anything she could remember. "If you're gonna keep spouting this nonsense about killing Makepeace, you should probably prepare for the worst."

That nonsense replayed in the back of her head, flickering like an old projector. The weight of the gun, the sting of the shot.

"With Justine Lawson and Henrik Pertinax behind me, I can likely prepare for anything," was her matter-of-fact reply. Lawson flushed, pleased. Henrik's absence was suffocating.

\---

Lucas Baker stumbled in late, but what else was new?

"Do _not_ go to t'Indian joint down on Ashton and 3rd," he said by way of greeting, and grimaced for effect. He peeled off his mackintosh, tossing it in the general direction of the coat stand.

"On the hooks," was the absent reply. Alcyone Layton didn't bother to look up from her files. 

Sheepish, he picked up his coat and hung it properly. "Do y'like Indian food, Prof? They had a Nine-Gem Curry, and how can you not try sommat sounds as bomb as that?" He grabbed an empty mug, peered into it, grabbed another. "Just don't try it at t'place on Ashton and 3rd."

"You've used the 'terrible dinner' excuse three times this month." She sighed, lifted her own mug, disparate tags of spent tea bags dangling over the rim. 

Dutifully he took it from her, and went back to the electric kettle. "A new case?"

"It was." She tossed the much-stamped folder to the out-box, nearly toppling the precarious stack of papers and packets. "I–" She cleared her throat. "We had it solved by eight."

Lucas glanced over his shoulder at her, brown eyes searching. She was turned away, an anemic wince on her face, hazel-grey eyes gazing out the window without seeing. She fiddled with something on her thumb.

It'd been a few months since Forebodium. He'd tried to keep things the same–was usually pretty good at that sort of thing, making the best of a situation with no clear solution, soldiering on in good faith. It was what got him through uni, pushed him through the academy, and against all odds placed him in London's New Scotland Yard Serious Crime Division Classified Investigation Agency Headquarters.

But the day Alcyone Layton came back from interrogating Justine Lawson, face drawn, eyes red, arguing with– _shouting at_ herself, enraged and ashamed at what had been done to her, Lucas began to understand there were some things you couldn't just smile and bluster your way through.

Damned if he wasn't going to keep trying, though.

"The tea," she murmured, and he jumped, turning back to the hissing kettle.

"You, eh, you two are working together?" He asked in as light a tone as he could manage, filling their mugs.

"In that we are forced to share tight quarters, yes. It's a kind of togetherness." Her tightly-drawn expression brightened some, like a cloud break, when he brought her double-bergamot Earl Grey with extra sugar. That little ghost of a smile was like the beatific visit of some patient saint. He grinned back, feeling a little dopey.

The thick silver ring around her thumb _clinked_ against the porcelain cup. It had appeared on her hand without warning several weeks ago. When he asked, she demurred and changed the subject. So he'd soldiered on.

"It's like being with a sister alluh time, innit? I know what it's like. Well." He sat on a clean edge of the desk, no wider than the flat of a butterknife. "I mean, I don't have sisters, but my brothers and me."

The vague, grey look had come over her again, and he knew it wasn't like having a constant sister at all.

"She investigates, deduces, interrogates," Alcyone said to the window, "and I do the filing." 

Her tone was demure as always, low and sweet, but something new wove through it, threatening to spoil, like a case of low-grade food poisoning from a perfectly decent bowl of curry.

"Speaking of the filing," he cut in, desperately hoping he didn't sound as clumsy as he felt, "I best get on it, or we'll need a second desk just for t'out-box."

Monday was always filing day. The Mystery Room was a mystery mess otherwise: boxes full of chips for the reconstruction device, seven layers of push-pinned clippings, the inexplicable puddles of old newspapers. Layton had a system, one that had served her well for years as a solo detective, but Baker neither shared her affinity for puzzling organization nor had access to her considerable mind(s) for the answer key. The only compromise was that one would have to bear the "inefficiency" of proper coding and numbering, and the other would have to promise to only impose order once a week.

Even when done regularly, the immensity of the project was the most likely answer to the question "Why is Lucas Baker always 67 minutes late on Monday?"

"Florent could've used this one days ago, I bet." Lucas waved a red stamped file folder, discovered from an excavation of week old takeaway receipts. "DL-794?"

"Then we'll have to deliver it to him." Alcyone massaged her temple with two fingers, hesitating. "Let me see it. I don't remember–"

"Don't worry about that one." A gaunt man, white-coated and be-wheeled, edged through the door. He gave Lucas a quick salute–Lucas could never tell if he was being sarcastic–before turning to Alcyone. "DL-794 has been closed."

"Hullo, Florent."

"Lucas."

Alcyone shook her head over the folder, tucking a wild strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "I don't believe I–"

"You called me a few hours after I dropped it off, Al." Florent Sich had retrieved a similar file from the sack slung over the back of his chair. He tossed it to her desk with expert ease. "Excited. Shouting. We had all the loose ends tied up within–ah, wait." He grimaced. "Different Al?"

Lucas's eyes darted between the two of them. Alcyone pursed her lips and set DL-794 back in the out-box. Mechanically, Lucas retrieved it and passed it over to Florent. 

"Heh." Part chuckle, part cough. "Sorry, Al. The other one's coming out a lot more now?"

"Yes." She had scooped up the new file, buried her long nose in it.

Lucas tried to write explanations to Florent in the air using just his eyes–it proved ineffective. The other man raised his eyebrows and coughed. "That one," he began, after clearing his throat. "has been passed all over this morning. It's a forensics nightmare. The DCI on the case was hoping you three'd see something he didn't."

Blood roared in Lucas's ears. Alcyone's eyes were dark and unmoving, fixed on the contents of the case.

"'Bout time for lunch anyway, innit?" Lucas announced a little too cheerily. "A little sommat to eat before a case always helps."

"Baker's got the right idea. I'll pitch in if you tell me where you're going."

But he was still watching Alcyone, trying to gauge her state. "Chinese?" He suggested after her silence. "Sarnies? Pizza?" He gently touched the top of the file, just within her sight-line.

She came out of herself with a quiet sound of surprise, eyes wide. Her gave her a reassuring smile. "Pizza, meatballs and peppers," was her ritual response, thought she still sounded like part of her was far away.

Florent was watching them with a curious expression, carefully erased a moment after Lucas noticed him. "Come on, I'll throw in a few pounds," he said, already rolling out the door.

The hall to the forensics department had never felt so long as Lucas marched silently besides Florent's faintly-squeaking chair. Where'd he get off referring to them as "you three?" Did no one else notice what was happening–what she was going through? The months since Forbodium had seen their productivity increase, it was true–the Yard was still congratulating themselves on case turnaround and the "return of the great Alcyone Layton." If _she_ was the great one, what did that make _the Prof_? Wasn't she great: the demure, personable, _likeable_ side?

The backs of his ears burned as Lucas tried not to hold it against all of them. The Mystery Room was the last line of defense against a case going cold, and if he'd never felt taken for granted before, in that little room with the pushpins and stuffed out-boxes, he did now that everyone seemed to dismiss the placid Alcyone Layton.

Florent's rattling sigh startled him out of his sulk. "You're in it deep, aren't you, Lucas?"

He balked at this, and stopped stewing immediately. "E-eh, sorry?" 

"You're in a whole mess, is what I mean."

He thought of the piles of paperwork and Alcyone's never-ending patience, her slender fingers sorting through this file and that. "Oh aye, we try to keep it tidy, but it's a full time job. I don't think t'Prof knows how to–"

"That's not at all what I meant." The grin on Florent's face was grating him for reasons Lucas couldn't immediately place.

"Detective Constable Baker?" A gentle, time-worn voice from just behind them. Lucas snapped to attention, and Florent nimbly spun in place. The commissioner smiled on them like a kindly grandmother, barely a hair over 150 centimeters tall and still the second most intimidating woman Lucas had ever met.

"A-aye, Commissioner?"

"Can we speak in my office please? For a moment."

Lucas clapped a hand on Florent's shoulder as he turned. "Don't worry none about t'money, I'll find you later."

"I'll pay up when you and Al solve DL-799." Florent signed off with a salute, and rolled away down the hall.

\---

The commissioner's office couldn't have been much larger than the Mystery Room, though it had that indefinable air of _bigness_. Its neatly arranged bookshelves (stacked with case reports) and curio cases (full of awards) pushed the walls up and out, stretched the room against the laws of physics and nature. Lucas felt small in the chair, facing down the enormous desk that managed to both dwarf the commissioner and elevate her to godhood.

She broke into another warm smile. "How are things in the Serious Crime Division?"

Lucas was still struggling with awed silence. He'd only been in her office once before, and it had been a blur of activity–his first day at the Yard, briefings and debriefings and results and reviews and assignments, Deputy Commissioner Chan breathing down his neck while the Balti from last night ate away his insides. It was a few seconds before he realized he'd been asked a question.

"Oh, grand! Grand as investigating murder can be, anyway."

She nodded her white head. "And you find you work well with Inspector Layton?"

"Well, I were surprised by it at first, but t'Prof and I get on famously. Er, if I do say so myself." It was hard not to take pride in that. He'd been partnered with the sharpest woman on the force–the sharpest woman he'd ever met–after bombing his writtens and barely graduating uni. "It's getting easier and easier to keep up with her, too." And she liked him! At least, she didn't _hate_ him. Part of her. Half of Alcyone Layton most likely didn't hate him. "She's brilliant, as brilliant as–you remember, when you told me on my first day?" Lucas certainly did. "Not a day goes by when she doesn't surprise me." Was he rambling?

The commissioner scratched the side of her nose, expression indecipherable. "You've been the closest to her," she began in mild tones. "Especially since the reopening and closing of the so-called Jigsaw Puzzle Murders case. How would you say her _progress_ has been?"

Now, that was a strange question. He shouldn't have been surprised that the grandmotherly woman had noticed or taken an interest in Alycone, but the commissioner was the head of the New Scotland Yard pantheon, and the rest of the deities had so far ignored whatever issues Inspector Layton was dealing with this time. 

"The Prof is..." He rubbed his chin. "The Prof is getting used to herself, I guess you could say."

"The events at Forebodium must have been quite a shock to you."

More than anything, he'd felt like a third wheel–well, there were already three of them, so maybe fourth wheel?–watching Lawson, Pertinax, and the Prof have it out over something from nearly five years ago. But he'd–well, he'd soldiered on, hadn't he? Because he believed in her. Because if he hadn't been there the past would've kept clawing after her. And now, more than believing in her, he knew he needed to help her.

The tiniest of smiles curved her thin lips. "Yearly reviews are coming around again, DC Baker. I'm asking after Inspector Layton because she is up for promotion."

"Eh?" The air seemed a little too thick suddenly.

"The Deputy Commissioner and I have been reviewing her work, as well as her growing capacity for leadership in the, ah, 'Mystery Room,' and we believe she's ready to–"

Had the heat come on suddenly? He adjusted his stiff collar. The commissioner had stopped speaking and was looking after him expectantly. "Ee, really... Chief Inspector... that's... that's cracking..."

"I wanted to hear from her subordinate–you, DC Baker–before I made further inquiries. I can't provide you concrete details, but naturally this would leave the Classified Investigation Agency Headquarters in your hands." 

"I'm–" His thoughts were a buzzing swarm. "I'm not sure–"

Gentle old eyes watched him, unreadable.

"I'm not sure she's ready for–for all that." The words were tumbling out of him. "Forebodium were only a few months ago, and we've–we've got some work to do still–" Images of their back-office, emptied of paper stacks, sterile, filled his head. Alcyone, out of her beloved Mystery Room, supervising–what, exactly? Who? Would they care about her headaches and her mood swings and her sudden smoking binges and all the tea bags?

"You aren't certain she's ready?" The commissioner summarized in a measured tone.

Lucas nodded, numb all over. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and the back of his ears burned. He was brought back with sudden clarity to the time he'd blamed the broken window on his oldest brother, and watched him graciously accept the punishment. This was nothing like that–of course, he wasn't saying anything wrong–but the hot all over, the numbness and the tingling, were sharply familiar.

The commissioner nodded, her fingers steepled before her, and gave him a smile as comforting as a fresh-baked cookie. "Thank you for your input, DC Baker. That will be all."

Lucas exited her office as smoothly as he could manage, still stumbling over the edge of the rug. The recycled air in the hallway was cool, soothing. Of _course_ , he repeated to himself, he hadn't said anything wrong. Alcyone Layton, leave the Mystery Room? She couldn't, not now. This was best– _safest_. He was doing nothing but stand behind her.

The feeling of being pricked all over with hot hot needles didn't fade so much as crunch itself into a sharp ball of foil, tumbling around in his stomach, cutting up his insides.


	2. Action and Alibis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas and Alcyone start investigating a new case–but all the suspects appear to have airtight alibis, and Lucas has to keep Alcyone's worse side from starting trouble with the senior investigating officer, DCI Rex Action.

Before his fingers brushed the doorknob, he could sense something was different.

A year ago it had been hard to tell. When the Prof got the way she did (turned a little on her own head, went a bit potty, _changed_ ), it was quick and dirty, like getting shanked in a dark alley. Lucas thought he was talking to a specific person–Alcyone Layton, sweet-natured, soft-spoken, well-mannered–and halfway through a sentence would realize she was someone else entirely–Alcyone Layton, wolf-eyed, hard-hearted, sharp-tongued. One was bright and vague like a hazy day, the other dark and crackling like a thunderstorm.

Electricity arced from the brass knob to his finger, and he swore under his breath, turning the knob carefully.

The desk had been cleared of paperwork–not in the usual Monday way, but the impatient, batty way, swept to the floor in a hurry. She'd shed her white coat, rolled up her voluminous sleeves, and let her red hair fall in a mess of curls and waves as she bent over the case files of DL-799.

"Pizza." Lucas tried not to grind his teeth. 

She sneered at the box. "Don't tell me–meatballs and peppers." Before he could answer she was there, ripping the box open in his hands, groaning theatrically. "I haven't had a pepperoni in years. _Years_."

"You weren't there to order," he reminded her.

Alcyone turned from the pizza in disgust. She perched herself on the edge of the desk, one long leg in shrink-to-fit black jeans hooked on the corner. "I suppose it's unreasonable to suggest thinking of _me_ next time, Baker." The case materials–photos, notes, dossiers, a small tape cassette–were scooped into the folder, her nimble fingers banding the whole thing back together. He dropped the pizza in a hurry, trying to catch the bundle she threw at him.

"Solve it," she commanded. 

"You're gonna time me," he joked, leaning against the wall and unwrapping the folder with deliberate sloth, trying not to sweat. The sight of all the tiny print and squiggly, handwritten notes made his throat tighten. He pulled the brim of his cap a little further down over his eyes.

"Speed counts, in this and in _most things_." Her smile was not at all like her counterpart's–it was a sharp, wicked thing that made his heart fall somewhere past his stomach.

The letters performed a mocking tap dance across the page. He hated strings of words in print, hated that burning feeling that spread from his ears to the back of his neck when he was faced with something as innocuous and daunting as a paragraph. Alcyone–not the one in front of him but the considerate one–had taken to highlighting key words, leaving extra space between lines, and a myriad of other little tricks to help him keep the letters in place. He had no idea how she'd deduced his... _difficulty_. But she never once balked at accommodating him.

That was not the Alcyone before him now: smirking, eyes dancing, refusing to give an inch. He took a deep breath and soldiered on, bouncing on his heels while he leafed through the file.

The photos and bylines coaxed him along, and he gleaned what he needed from organized boxes and choppy suspect statements. A middle-aged man, Uri Garner, found dead and bound last night in a storage shed at the western docks. Approximate time was 6:30 pm, body found at 7:00. Apparent cause was asphyxiation. A bucket of what forensics identified as a mixture of bleach and household cleaner was found near the body. Windows and doors sealed. No signs of struggle.

"Chlorine gas." He whistled through his teeth and Alcyone grunted. "Bit of nasty work. Who found him?"

"Dock worker," she replied, picking a thread out of her turtleneck, utterly disinterested in the question.

The dock worker–a Mr. Dewey Nowitt, who was playing poker with a buddy until past the estimated time of death–was included in a stack with the other suspects: Mrs. Ima Garner–suspect's wife–and Mr. Zavier Cash–suspect's former business partner.

"That's a convenient alibi, playing poker all night." He shook the polaroid of Nowitt at her. "We should question this poker buddy."

Her gaze was unexpectedly hot. "The 'poker buddy' is verified. That alibi holds."

He knit his brows. "What makes you–"

"Baker." The smile grew dangerous. "I gave you one of the answers on the test. You should show some gratitude."

Lucas dropped his eyes back to the file, his ears burning. "Then..." He sifted through the other photos and statements. Unhappy wife in an unhappy marriage–black and white threw the frown lines on her sour face into sharp contrast, a tan line where a ring on her finger should be. Business partner left to pick up the pieces of a bad investment–photo clipped from a newspaper: cross man, crossed arms, wooden boards criss-crossing the windows of a shuttered diner. 

"They both look sus as hell," he started, drawing on his extensive knowledge of Classic Villain Faces. "But Cash's got t'best motive for sure." Lucas loosened his collar a little as he slowly paced the room, legs moving his brain a little faster in real and theoretical space. "He must've lost a bit of money on that restaurant. We can–"

Alcyone was up and off the desk, slick like blood. With one hand she closed the file on him, and took it from his grasp. "You assume the _woman_ couldn't possibly have done it."

"I what?" When did they get on thin ice so quickly? He looked her in the eye (upwards ever so slightly–she had three centimeters on him), trying to read what was there, figure out what she _wanted_ from him. He couldn't stop the frown from taking control of his features. "No, I just think–"

"You _don't_ think, Baker, and that's the problem." She glared down into the folder, chewing her lip, knitting her brows, looking downright concerned. "That's the problem."

She paced, wordless, as clouds gathered outside and turned the room silvery grey. 

He realized with a start that she hadn't figured it out yet. Was this supposed to be her way of brainstorming? He could do without. "Have you called anyone int'question?" 

She jumped when he spoke, wrenched from her thoughts. "As a matter of fact," and her smile was the brightest thing in the room, if a little desperate, "the former Mrs. Garner will be arriving in mere–"

The phone rang. She snatched up her coat.

"Do you want to answer–"

Alcyone flung open the door. "Why bother, it only means she's here! Come on, Baker."

But his irritation wouldn't subside. "Shouldn't t' _less scary_ Prof be handlin' this?"

She was gone in a flutter of white and red, her long legs carrying her in great strides down the hall to the interrogation room.

\---

He cupped his hands around the dark two-way mirrors, trying to get more details out of the dim room. There was Mrs. Garner in the uncomfortable folding chair, back as straight as a signpost. She was built rather like an 8, all bosom and bottom and barely anything between them. Her elegant chocolate-brown dress was complimented by a startling amount of jewelry, gold and white gems (CZ, he guessed, or maybe just costume glass–way too much fire for real diamonds). Even her manicure was studded with little stick-on crystals. Eyes that had looked heavy and exhausted in her dossier photos were warm and bright, and her giggling floated easily through the treated glass.

The man across the table from their suspect had thrown Alcyone into an outburst that hadn't stopped for several minutes.

"–With a paring knife," she was hissing, "and make him _choke_ on it. How _dare_ he question _my_ suspect? This unicellular _cretin_ fairly _admitted_ he's _incapable of fielding this investigation_ when he passed it off to me-"

He had a jaw so square you could use it as a butcher block, dusted with Hollywood-perfect stubble. Brilliant eyes, strong nose, no doubt perfect hair under his...

"Is he wearin' a–?" Lucas gestured to his own head, trying to conjure the words. "A cowboy hat?"

"A _fedora_ ," she sputtered, twisting her fingers through her hair, "a high-crowned, wide-brimmed, ridiculous _fedora_ , as though he expects the _natives_ will threaten him with spears any second."

The badge of a detective chief inspector glimmered from a loop in his suspenders, just under a tan leather jacket. Lucas couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"DCI...?" He trailed off, throwing a side-glance at his partner.

"Action. DCI Rex Action." She drew herself up, stiff, buttoning the front of her white coat. "And I refuse to indulge this man."

"Well, we gotta get in and ask our own questions, right?" He pulled away from the bizarre scene, his fingerprints fading like ghosts on the glass. Alcyone ignored him as she recomposed herself. "We don't know if she's got–Prof?" 

She dug the heel of her palm into her eye, her breathing heavy. He reached for her shoulder without realizing it. "Ee, Prof, you alright?"

"I'm sorry, Lucas." She covered her eyes with one slender hand, though the hall was already dark. "It seems she expects me to finish the unpleasant parts. Are you ready to meet Mrs. Garner?"

He sighed in relief. "Prof..." The _real_ Prof, as far as he was concerned. "Aye, we can head in. D'you need..." He reached for his pocket with the emergency stash of little yellow tabs.

Alcyone shook her head, dropped her hand, put on a smile like another white coat. "After you, DC Baker."

DCI Action looked up as the door swung open, his smile blinding. "Ah, I believe the bad cops have arrived." He gave the suspect a broad wink that set her giggling again, his ultra-posh accent immediately trampling Lucas's nerves. "Ima, these are my associates, Inspector Layton, and... well, I'm sorry, chap, but I don't think we've been introduced."

"I'm–"

Action blurred with speed, hand snapping from his inner jacket to Lucas's chin. Lucas leapt back with a shout. 

The detective chuckled, managing to be both understanding and patronizing. The item in his hand was black, rectangular, with a large red button on the side. "It's only a Toney M-470, my boy, a _voice recorder_. Please don't let it frighten you."

Ima Garner was twittering again. Apparently, she found Rex Action delightful. Lucas found him loathsome.

"Into the microphone, if you please." Action clicked the heavy red button, the cassette tape slowly winding.

"I'm Lucas Baker," he said, awkward and annoyed. 

Action brought the recorder to his own (admirable) chin, and muttered into it. "Detective Constable, roughly 175 centimeters, early twenties, brown hair slash eyes, dashing facial hair–" the recorder clicked as he removed his thumb. "And I don't consider compliments like that lightly, my boy, you'd make General Burnside himself green with envy." He chuckled at his own joke.

Lucas rubbed his sideburns self-consciously and glanced at Alcyone, for once seeking solace in her unreasonable snap-judgements. But he saw a saintlike smile, not a knowing grin. "We will handle the questioning from here, Chief Inspector," she said, gentle but firm.

"Ah, alas." He shook his head. "My dear, we must part." Action stood from the table, bowing to Mrs. Garner. "I leave you in quite capable hands."

"Thank you, Chief Inspector." Alcyone inclined her head, holding the case file close to her chest.

" _Quite_ capable." He was chuckling again, tipping his hat and–was that a wink? Quick as a rabbit and just as lascivious, Rex Action winked at Alcyone Layton, and excused himself from the room.

Lucas stared after him, glanced back and forth from Alcyone to the door. No one seemed to have noticed anything untoward had happened–the suspect deflated somewhat, Alcyone unpacked discreet bits of her file, and Action's absence left a ringing silence in the room. Lucas felt like he'd been the only one to see a gorilla with a parachute come crashing through the ceiling.

He sucked in a deep breath and pushed DCI Action as far from his mind as he could, taking the seat next to Alcyone.

"Mrs. Garner," she began, in the Interrogation Tone and Cadence he had heard countless times before. "First, let me express my condolences at the loss of your husband."

"Of course," she said, wooden. "Of course."

"I hope you don't think it untoward that you have been called in for questioning. I assure you, this is just to collect as many of the facts as possible." Alcyone folded her hands on the desk, hazel eyes soft but searching. 

The woman sniffed a little, and turned away. She was even more _abundant_ up-close, like a cheesy 3D picture. It made an otherwise small stain down the front of her dress look downright unfortunate. "You wouldn't be questioning me if you didn't somehow think I _did_ it."

The argument of earlier, Alcyone's unspoken doubt, came fresh to Lucas's mind. He wondered what percentage certainty the inspector was working from.

"If you share the truth with us, then there's no reason to be concerned at all," she said in her most reasonable voice. 

Ima Garner's nails sparkled when she wiped dry eyes, ringed with smudged liner. Lucas saw the tan line again from the missing ring, and holes in the manicure where gems had broken off–probably during the trademark Disappearing Ring Act of bitter housewives. "You should be out there trying to catch the real killer, instead of wasting your time on a recent widow," she whined.

It was going to be one of _those_ suspects. The potty Prof would have made a mess of this, but the placid Alcyone only cocked her head like a sparrow, quietly spinning the ring on her thumb. "Your cooperation will help us apprehend your husband's murderer. Do you know what he was doing the night of his death?"

"And where were _you_ ," Lucas added. Ima's eyebrows jumped up her forehead, and he fought back a wince. "I mean..." That wasn't how he meant to say it all. His leg jittered. "I mean, where were you t'night of?"

"My husband worked the night shift," she said gustily, sweeping a hard glare up and down his face before turning to Alcyone. "Security for the docks. He always works late Sunday. And, well, I was asleep, of course." Garner dismissed the question with a wave of her shimmering hand. "Until I got that awful call. I've been in and out of rooms like this all night and day. I haven't even been back to–"

"Asleep at 7:30?" Lucas pressed, crossing his arms. She was dead sus and he could feel it, that old familiar adrenaline rush trickling into his limbs.

Ima's blue-eyed gaze was cold and baleful. "I was asked to come to the office early today. And so much for that!"

"Your husband is dead and you're chuffed about not workin' early on a Monday?"

His knee went warm suddenly. Alcyone's hand was firmly pressing his bouncing leg back to the floor. He hadn't even realized it'd been moving–a nervous habit, sitting still was the worst. He tried to avoid her eyes until his ears stopped burning, but her gaze was fixed solely on the suspect. "Are you certain you were in bed early that night, Mrs. Garner?"

" _Very_. Uri left at six, I retired at seven. You can ask my ladies," she added, a touch shrill. "They told me to come in early this morning, I swear it."

She was frantic to make no alibi seem the most ironclad thing in the history of criminal investigation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of silver: Alcyone's hand drifted to a neatly-filled form, her finger hovering over the time it had been processed.

"Mrs. Garner." Lucas struggled to keep the jitter out of his leg. "We notified next-of-kin at 7:30, but didn't hear from you 'tall until 9:45."

Her round face went pallid. "Oh, oh yes. Yes, I... sleep very deeply and missed the first call. But I woke up and heard the message on my machine!"

"And then you put on all your jewelry and makeup and that posh dress and–"

"I don't see how that's any of your business!"

"You're absolutely right, Mrs. Garner, your personal presentation is not up for questioning," Alcyone cut in, soothingly. "But–please forgive me for saying–did you know your dress had a tomato stain when you put it on last night?"

The glittering woman came to a full stop, staring at Alcyone with blank eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

She gestured politely. "There, down the front."

Ima contorted herself and pulled at the dress. "Well, that's... that's embarrassing." The delicate sheen of sweat across her forehead belied more than embarrassment. "But I don't–"

"Fresh," Alcyone reflected as she stared at it. "It hasn't been washed in, yet. I imagine it must have happened last night. I think it was around the same time the crystals on your ring finger–and, it seems, your ring–went missing. What do you think, Mrs. Garner?"

Mrs. Garner gaped and stammered. 

Alcyone turned to Lucas, her eyes flashing the way they did when certainty was around the corner, when he could practically see the number _100%_ in neon above her head. Lucas had only just caught up to her, and was himself trying to keep his jaw from the floor.

The lady was sus all right, but not for murder.

"Mrs. Garner," he started, tentative. "Did you go out last night?"

"I–I was at home," she repeated, though the outrage had drained away. "In bed. Not–not what you–I didn't do it, you... you have to believe me..." Tears, real ones this time, swelled in the corners of her eyes. "Please, I can't..."

"I understand your actual whereabouts must be incriminating, but without more information we can't remove you from the suspect list." Alcyone folded her hands, carefully straightened her expression, was the very picture of forgiveness and understanding. "That will impede the search for your husband's killer."

"C'mon, Mrs. Garner." Lucas leaned forward, barely in his seat. "Whatever it were, it can't be worse than murder."

She tapped her nails together, gazing down at them, the gem-free finger plain and obvious. "I knew Uri'd been seeing– _purchasing_ companionship." Her voice was tight and tear-strained. "For years, he'd been doing it. I wanted to confront him. I found a–" Ima reached around the chair and dug through her ridiculously small purse, pulling out a jingling packet. "A hotel room key. Last night when he came home, I was going to show him. Zavier finally... finally gave me the courage..." 

She threw her glittering hands over her face and burst into tears.

Zavier, the business partner? Lucas raised his eyebrows at Alcyone, who had gone still as marble. Fumbling, he found his handkerchief and offered it to Ima. She dabbed under her eyes, trying to keep her makeup under control.

"You and Zavier Cash–" He started.

"We've been seeing each other." She was matter-of-fact, suddenly concerned with the handkerchief's neat folds. "Every Sunday. Last night was Il Posto Costoso. Italian. My favorite." She sniffled, gave a sad smile. "Zavier took me home, and I... I heard the message..." Thick tears dribbled down her face, and the handkerchief was once again all a-crumple.

"Give over," he muttered. She'd been cheating on her cheating husband with the other suspect. Who did that leave them? "W-we should probably question t'other guy, too, make sure they match up."

Alcyone rose in a flutter of white coattails. "It's a simple matter to call the restaurant and ask to check last night's reservations." Her voice had lost some of its softness. Lucas tried to peer into her face but she turned away. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Ganner."

He fidgeted, watching the suspect complete her mourning phase with his now makeup-smeared hanky. "I suppose you think I'm a hypocrite," she said in a voice that begged pity.

 _Aye, sure do._ But there was no good in kicking someone when they were down. "W-well, you two care about each other, right?" He rubbed the back of his neck, carefully watched Alcyone on the phone at the other end of the room. "And if he were hurting you... You deserve to be happy with somebody, right?"

Her red-rimmed eyes crinkled when she beamed at him. "Thank you. I knew if anyone would understand, it'd be the younger, fresh-faced couple. Never lose that compassion!" She grabbed his hand in one of hers, gave it a companionable squeeze. "Goodness knows it must be hard to stay together in a profession as cruel as this one."

Lucas broke away from Alcyone to give Ima an empty stare. "Eh?"

The inspector said "thank you" into the receiver and hung up. Mrs. Garner withdrew her hand and gave him another genuine smile. What did she think was...?

"Il Posto Costoso confirmed the reservations from last night," Alcyone explained. "A waiter described both of them in some detail." She nodded at Ima. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Garner. "

Lucas squinted up at his partner. Her expression was still smooth and blank, like a plastic mask.

Ima held a hand over her heart in relief. "So it's over."

"We'll notify you if we have any further questions." She opened the door and gestured, staring off into space. "Good day, Mrs. Garner."

Even after the former suspect left earshot, Alcyone stood in the door, spinning the ring, her pale eyes darting back and forth as if reading something in the invisible air. 

"Back to the drawing board?" Lucas braved the question. 

She nodded, silent, still only half there, and finally moved through the doorway.

\---

There was only one other time he'd worked a case with few leads, and they were: conflicting testimony from the same mouth, an impossible gunner, a handful of ruined ivy. They'd made it out all right, hadn't they? Him, the Prof, the other Prof, finally catching the murderer, finally putting a case right. But she hadn't been the detective then, she'd been part-suspect, part-evidence, part-witness, arguing her own unreliable statements. It was Lucas who'd pushed through and made the ends meet. He was used to that–good at being obstinate, pounding round pegs through square holes. Alcyone Layton didn't "push through." Alcyone Layton punched in the right answers on the first try and got a perfect score.

He wondered when she had last faced insurmountable odds or single-digit certainty... because she hadn't touched the pizza and let three mugs of Earl Grey go cold. Her headaches were getting the better of her, maybe. Ms. Hyde hadn't made another appearance, no harsh words or baleful glares, but more than once he saw her reach into a drawer for a crumpled pack and stick an unlit cig in her mouth to chew on the end. 

The sun set on a thoroughly grey day with none of them making further progress, no matter how many times they scoured the crime scene recreation in her ingenious little machine. If what she said was right–and of course, it was–Nowitt had an airtight alibi and his statements (mostly rephrasing of "Didn't see nuffin") were to be trusted. But not only were the final two suspects each other's alibis, their story was confirmed by the restaurant staff of Il Posto Costoso. And as for Uri Garner's "purchased companions," they had no idea who he was seeing, how to find them, even whether they were male, female, or other. And how could they ever know? Take the key to every hotel in England? Check weeks worth of lobby security footage?

There were no other suspects, no witnesses, no prints.

"Prof." He touched the desk in front of her, softly, the best way to get her attention without wrenching it out of her. 

She set down the forensics report–seventh time reading it–and massaged her forehead. "Mm?"

"It's closing time."

Alcyone gazed with murky eyes out the office window into the dark London night, orange street-light reflected in wet roads like mirrors. "Ah. So it is."

"You alright?"

She focused her unwavering stare on him. It took too long to answer such a simple question. He found himself squirming under her eyes. "It's been a long day," she said finally.

"Right. Right." He drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to figure the best way to proceed. "A tough case, innit? Do you, eh... do you want to–"

"Have dinner with me."

His chest constricted in less than half a second, forcing the rest of his sentence out in a funny little squeak. "- _talk about it_ –what–you– _what_?"

Her face was serious as a crime scene, no hint of a smile. He was forced to wonder who was asking.

"Sh-should we finish t'pizza?"

"I was thinking Chinese." She grabbed for the blue overcoat she wore outside the office–a storm-colored pea coat, flared from the waist, made her already long legs seem to go on for kilometers–and fished around the inside for a pocketbook. "I believe it was–yes, here." She pulled out a thin, cheque-sized piece of paper. "The Red Dragon." Those hazel-grey eyes pinned him in place again, not exactly pleading but brooking no resistance.

"A-aye." He felt a peculiar nausea, uncoiling between his chest and his sternum. Not food poisoning–he'd certainly had that enough times to know better–but a fluttering sort of–sort of– "Never been there! Sounds bomb!" –sort of like _finches_ , when he thought about it, a million of them bumping into each other and making a racket and beating their tiny little wings against his ribs.

She smiled. It was the same smile as always–small and thin, like a carefully conserved resource, as though she might accidentally let out all her light and spend the rest of her days as a burnt-out bulb. But evidence needs context, and Lucas had Florent's smirks, the commissioner's mild questions, Detective Rex Action's obnoxious flirting, a total stranger's well-meaning comments, and now this, his heart pounding in reaction to the very same smile she always gave him, when he said yes to dinner, with her, tonight, soon.

It had taken him a year to deduce, but he was suddenly 94.7% certain he was in love with her.


	3. Mum's the Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas and Alcyone go to dinner (it's not what it looks like). Later, she invites him over to her place (it's not what it looks like). Then, they take a trip into the suburbs to see a nice little cottage together (it's not what it looks like).

What about the other 5.3%?

They walked to The Red Dragon, a few blocks from the Yard in the misting rain, holding separate umbrellas. Neither of them spoke. He knew he should say something– _anything_ –but it felt like someone had stuffed golf balls down his throat.

The other 5.3% was a desperate flailing, really, not any sort of hard and fast reasoning. But he clung to it like a bit of debris in a storm-tossed sea. This was the one time his judgement must be faulty in some way. She was his coworker, for one. Technically, his boss. This was one of those forbidden fruit things he'd heard people reference before. Right. He just liked her because he  _shouldn't_ . And she was–what–eight years older than him? Didn't he have a  _thing_ ? A shallow reaction to the fact that his mum was six years older than his dad? Right. He'd always had this response to older women.

The neon dragon sign had an ethereal glow about it, dying the night haze red like a blood stain. He stumbled forward to open the door for her. She inclined her head and smiled, sending his heart into a corkscrew spiral. 

And he wasn't her type, at any rate. He thought wistfully of Henrik Pertinax, with his cool, Icelandic, underwear model looks (Henrik was  _everyone's_ type, he reassured himself). No, a scruffy Yorkshire kid in a lumpy hat was the exact  _opposite_ of Pertinax. 

As rational as he could make it sound, the 5.3% could not account for why Alcyone Layton had asked him to dinner in the first place.

The restaurant was empty, dark wood lit by red paper lanterns. She found a two-top near the window and he mechanically took the seat across from her, leaving hat and coat on the back of his chair. The server came and went–he haltingly asked for water after she ordered tea.

"It's–it's nice," he offered.

She was scanning the room, methodical. "It is," she agreed, apparently satisfied. "I have to admit, I wasn't sure what to expect. I've come to assume Mother only chooses dining based on relative location to the office."

"Eh?" His glass froze on the way to his lips. "Your mum?" 

"Yes." She reached into the pocket of her coat for the slip of paper. "She always sends a gift voucher on my birthday." The voucher was passed to him–a substantial amount written in a spidery hand, a dragon stamped in vermilion ink along the top. "This one is simply too large to use on only myself."

The gulp of water was a little too large and a little too cold. It sank like a frozen rock to the pit of his stomach. "Oh, aye?"

Alcyone left the voucher near her place setting, and was at once distracted by something out the window. "It was quite a day," she said, sounding far away. "A day that requires dumplings."

Not a date? His head spun, and he repressed the urge to grab it by the ears, hold it in place. Relief bubbled up, though that cold feeling lingered on in his chest. "I couldn't agree more."

Dumplings of every stripe were asked for–she seemed determined to spend the voucher in one sitting–and Lucas managed to single out the spiciest dish on the menu. 

Not a date. So don't worry about it. She smiled at the face he made when the baskets full of dumplings covered the entire table. Not a date, just an economic convenience. She couldn't achieve mastery of the chopsticks and skewered food instead, speaking calmly of efficiency through Lucas's snickers. Not a date. So don't worry.

But "I'm in love" wasn't the kind of thought you could take back.

"You said–" he started when the icy spot in his stomach seemed to be getting a bit much. "She sends them on your birthday? I thought t'weren't 'til June."

"Yes," she agreed. "I was born in June. My adoption was finalized on April 14th."

She said it so casually that he had taken another mouthful of food before processing the information. He choked on noodles, quickly managed it, went for the water again. "Adoption? You were adopted?"

"Yes." Three more skewered dumplings found their way to her plate. "Does that surprise you?"

In truth, he'd had no idea. And it wasn't a  _big_ deal, at all. But it was one of those deeply personal, very important, Origin Story details that one felt one ought to know, if one were to be working with the other, growing to be friends, wrestling with this irrational dread of falling in love...

"It does," he admitted, grinning sheepishly. 

Alcyone produced the card her mother had sent, and passed it over the table with gravity, as though it were case evidence. "Every April she sends a lovely little card, a gift voucher, some other souvenirs..." Her tone was the equivalent of a dismissive handwave.

Lucas didn't ever hear much about Ma Layton, only that she was a professor–an  _actual_ professor, compared to Lucas's well-meaning nickname for her daughter. He also knew Alcyone was not speaking to her–and anything more was not his business. But, she had handed him the card...

He glanced on it, struggling not to appear to eager for details. It was beautiful, with white scrollwork, a few lilies, very proper–ladylike. A newspaper clipping slipped between his fingers, gray and gritty and out of place. The voucher must have been fixed here with a little sello. Below that, the handwriting was hard for him to process, but he was able to make out: "Be not ashamed of mistakes, and thus make them crimes."

"Confucius," she explained. She curled slender fingers around the steaming mug of green tea. "Mother does love pithy wisdom."  

The clipping was a logic puzzle, with its neat grid of squares and ridiculous clues. He squinted at the words. "Mr. Yellow was not found guilty of theft on Tuesday; Mr. Red was tried the day after someone was found guilty of blackmail..."  It was annotated with the same handwriting: "thought of you!" 

"That's real nice of her," he offered, handing the card and its contents back. 

"Yes," she agreed, running a finger back and forth along the white porcelain of her cup.

There was a door hanging invisible between them but he was too afraid to knock. He wanted desperately to know more about her mother, without upsetting her. He wanted to know about puzzles and Confucius and what it was like to be  _chosen_ by a parent. He wanted her to stop looking so far away. The urge to reach over and take her hand nearly knocked him over and swept him out to sea, but thankfully her hands were firm around the mug. He focused on his food, and silence fell.

"Things have been strange for you since Forbodium," she said.

"Strange?" He looked up from the last noodle he was chasing around the plate. "For me? How?"

Her yellow-grey eyes were hard and searching, but she still smiled. "I can't imagine it's a pleasant business, trying to anticipate who your partner will be at any given moment."

Lucas blew a short, dismissive raspberry. "Worth it. Every bit." The last noodle was seized, and he chewed it triumphantly. "The Mystery Room is where the real stinkers get cracked." He pointed his chopsticks at her. "And you're–you're–" He could feel the heat rising in his ears but he soldiered on. "You're t'smartest person I ever met, definitely the best detective. I didn't learn half this much in four years of uni!"

"You  _have_ learned quite a bit." Her finger traced along the edge of the mug. "Your instincts were always as good as my–" She cleared her throat briefly, delicately. "My sister's." Something in her tone made him silent, uneasy. She was looking out the window again, spinning the ring, frowning. "Between the two of you, the Mystery Room has been doing well for itself. 

"'Ey," he sputtered. "'Ey, Prof, you're in on this, too."

Their dishes were cleared away. She watched him with unreadable eyes. "That's true," she agreed finally, when they were alone again. "All three of us are at a loss on DL-799."

"Listen," and he leaned forward, the words spilling out of him, "listen, I know our dock worker has an alibi but I can't shake the feeling we gotta look into it more. He's t'only one who could've witnessed the crime or seen the murderer. He found the body!"

Alcyone looked tired. "Mr. Nowitt's alibi is ironclad, as far as the Yard is concerned."

"But what about  _us_ ," he insisted. "Do  _we_ think it's ironclad?"

She took a careful sip of tea. "Mr. Nowitt spent all night playing poker with DCI Action. Sadly, it doesn't matter what we think."

"Give over!" He cried, a little too loud. The staff glared at him, and he leaned further across the table, dropping his voice to a hiss. "Action?? T'Hollywood-lookin' detective?"

She watched him silently.

Lucas mechanically reached for his hat, fumbling when it wasn't on his head. He ran his other hand through his hair. "Give over," he muttered again. "So we can't... we can't question him?"

"DCI Action has submitted statements on the record, if you'd like me to retrieve them." 

"What I'd  _like_ is to really question him."

She shrugged.

"Prof, c'mon, we need  _summat_ here. That guy–he's  _crazy_ sus."

"Not liking someone doesn't automatically make them suspicious." She smiled over the rim of the mug.

"I didn't say I didn't like him," he snapped, his ears burning.

"The DCI is out of our grasp," she assured him. The receipt came back with a handful of stale fortune cookies, which she pushed across the table to him. In one fluid motion she was on her feet, shrugging into her pea coat. "We need to work with what is available to us."

"Aye, well, what's 'available' is squat." He tripped a little over the chair, shoving his arms into his coat, dumping fortune cookies into a pocket. 

"Tomorrow is a new day," she said with the air of someone quoting an ancient sage. A bell tinkled as she held the door for him. "We can address the case with fresh eyes."

The night was wet, reflective, though the mist had stopped. A second city was mirrored in the glistening streets, and everything was smeary light. Lucas brushed his hair back and replaced his cap. "Tomorrow, then, I guess." 

They were to go in separate directions–one flat was in walking distance, the other reachable by Tube. But when Alcyone turned to leave he felt a little spark jump to life in his chest, half-dread and half-need. He grabbed her by the elbow.

"Prof," he said, as calmly as he could to the startled look on her face. "The Mystery Room needs you. Maybe even more than the potty version of you."

Her little smile was mirthless, sardonic. "She came first, you know."

"Not to  _me_ ," he said, maybe with a little more force than was necessary. She flinched and he lowered his voice. "And that doesn't matter, because you're here now–we're  _all_ here now, and we're all gonna work together. You're not–" he brightened, hit with inspiration, "you're not a mistake,  _or_ a crime. Right?"

She hesitated. Was he even helping? "Right." She freed her arm, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Good night, Lucas."

"Good night," he repeated, deflating. "Ta for dinner."

The rain started up again on the walk to his flat.

\---

The tattered remains of some flyer or other still clung to his weather-beaten door. He ripped it down, crumpled it up, pitched it like a softball. The throw was really something, but the paper ball had the nerve to only sail a few limp inches before plopping to the ground. He kicked it in revenge, and it puttered across the floor.

_Excellent job, Lucas. Capital work._

Maybe he  _had_ come on too strong. Maybe this wasn't the angle to take. But there was something... something  _desperate_ wadded up in his chest, tumbling about, knocking his heart around. If pressed, there was no way he could put it to words, but it was a definite feeling of panic, at some impending loss. Of her. He felt like he was losing her, but couldn't for the life of him know how, or even to what--only that he had to do everything to stop it. 

He stumbled across the dark living room to the red light on his answering machine. Two new messages.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Baker." A wheedling voice, thin and nasal. "This is Brent Lately, the landlord. Just a reminder, tonight is the last ni—"

Lucas jammed his finger into the "next" button. Lately must have lost the rent check again. He was in no mood for his guilt trips.

"Lucas, it's Mummy!"

Ah, a different guilt trip altogether. His finger hovered over the next button, trying to assess what would no doubt be a grim 90 seconds.

"Marcus's ceremony is comin' up, t'end of the month. You know, the grant award ceremony. Now, all of his fancy accomplished doctor friends will be there to present, so I wanted to make sure you knew  _not_ to wear that grubby getup I normally see you in, see if you can borrow a suit from one of t' _other_ detectives or summat."

He sank into the chair next to his mother's pleasant, relentless voice, pulling his hat over his eyes.

"I mean, really, your sister's about to graduate, we need to find her someone respectable, and a single doctor is just t'thing. Lord knows I've already given up on you, but we can put t'whole family to good use, can't we? Make room in your schedule. It'll be good for you to see your brother, see t'things you  _could_ do if you put your mind to it. Darlin', ring me back, you never call me anym—"

He stabbed the "next" button. No more messages.

With the lights off, he could pretend he wasn't living in a one-room flat, with barely the room for a microwave, and certainly no closet for the fancy suits his mother insisted he  _ought_ to be wearing. He felt his way to the bedroom, his mind a mess of TV static.  _Good show, Lucas. Excellent job you're doing._

His optimism couldn't help but break through, even as the blare of car alarms fractured the brittle silence. DL-799 was just a single witness away. A good night's sleep, a morning run, and everything would fall into place. He just needed to see it from another angle.

Sleep covered him like a blanket, and he saw a white card with lilies and a handwritten note, a "thought of you" from a mother who was grateful and deliberate...

\---

Most mornings, he didn't fully wake up until after his fourth kilometer. Maybe others would have found this disorienting, or even disturbing, but there was something pleasant to Lucas about coming to on his feet, flying through a gray and sleeping city. It felt good knowing there was something his body just knew by heart.

But he was wrenched to consciousness in his flat, eyes still bleary, only half-dressed. The cold metal of the doorknob stung his hand. Two men in strange protective gear were staring at him with wide eyes. They were waiting for a response.

"Er. Whassat?" Lucas mumbled at them. 

"I said, you can't be here. The whole building's blocked off." Watery blue eyes squinted into the apartment. "Didn't you get the letter?"

"Letter?" Lucas dug the heel of his hand into his eye. 

"We sent notices to the landlord weeks ago, and he sent notices to the tenants," said the smaller, more-reasonable looking one. He peered at Lucas over his spectacles. "Emergency maintenance. Bringing the whole place up to code. Any of that sound familiar?"

Lucas stood there, made of wood, trying out each of the words in his head. Emergency. Code. Landlord.

"You need to leave," Specs tried again.

Panic jumpstarted his brain. The flyer! The voice message! "Oh... oh God, that's right..." He glanced around his apartment, panicked. "Sorry, I'm sorry, just--work, and--"

"Yes," Specs said impatiently. "So, you'll be leaving soon?"

"I can head out early, and--you'll be done...?" Lucas galloped about the small room, gathering what he could.

"In a week."

"A-a week?" Shirt. Hat. He backed into his bedroom, clutching both to his chest. "R-right. Listen, mate, I need--I need 20, and I'll be out of your hair..."

The two men glanced at each other. "We'll just be getting set up."

A week? He found his duffle bag, threw clothes and supplies indiscriminately. A week?! How had he missed it? He unlocked the bedroom drawer, withdrew his glock, fumbled with the straps on the holster. If he was cautious, he could maybe stay at the Yard for a few days without anyone noticing...

At least he could be early, for once. He took up his lumpy bag, was still buttoning his jacket when he left the apartment. The men nodded at him, relief clear on their faces. 

Most mornings left him wide awake after his run and routine, but the business of being thrown out of his own flat shook the whole thing off balance. He showed up to the Yard too early, showered in their facilities, unlocked the Mystery Room himself (a first), slumped in Alcyone's chair. He had no memory of closing his eyes, but soon he was opening them, peering into his partner's bemused face.

"Good morning, Lucas."

He jumped, and the chair squeaked across the floor. Alcyone straightened up, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. There was a mug of tea in her hand, a newspaper under her arm, and an expectant look in her eyes.

"G-good mornin', Prof," he returned. 

She nodded, and took the chair across from him, smoothing the paper on the desk between them. "I appreciate the commitment to improving your punctuality."

As usual, he couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic--any smirk was hidden behind the lip of her mug. "I didn't mean to," he confessed. "I'm a bit homeless now, actually." He rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from his odd napping position. 

"Oh? Misplaced rent check again?" She carefully creased the front page of her paper.

"No, a maintenance-sommat. Gonna be a whole week." He grimaced across the room, where he'd tossed the duffle bag in a soporific state. "I'll haff to get Lately to reimburse me for a hotel, I guess."

"Nonsense." She set down the mug, steepled her fingers, never lifting her eyes from the news. "There's room in my flat."

He choked on a laugh. The strangled sound was enough to finally catch her attention, and she knit her brows at him. 

"Sorry, it's just--that's not—" He licked his lips nervously under her unwavering gaze. "You're serious?"

She inclined her head. "Homelessness is no joking matter."

Did she really not understand how... how  _strange_ that was? The backs of his ears began to burn. Or maybe it wasn't strange at all, and he was reading into it--like the dinner, last night. He forced himself to relax. Honestly, to be anxious about a friend offering him a place to stay! Like they weren't rational adults who could avoid somehow accidentally falling into each other's—

"Then ta very much!" He said, a little too loudly, trying to truncate his own thought process. He wanted to seem just as cool about this as she was. "I wouldn't'a asked but that's downright generous of you."

Alcyone smiled. With quick fingers, she bundled the paper into a tight roll, and tucked it into one of the deep pockets of her coat. "Now that the matter of your temporary relocation has been resolved, how do you feel about a trip out of town today?"

"Eh?" He squinted at her. She seemed better today, somehow. No distant stares. "What kind of trip?"

"Our train leaves at 10:15. We should leave soon." She glanced over his shoulder at the clock. "I realized there is another person related to the DL-799 case to question."

A grunt of surprise escaped him. "You didn't!" He couldn't keep the abject admiration from his voice. "That case were airtight. Who'd you find?"

"It's a bit of a long shot," she admitted, tapping her fingers on the mug. "But she has connections to this case, however tenuous. I'd been considering contacting her, but I was barely 24.7% certain she'd know anything to begin with."

"That's better than zero!" Lucas jumped to his feet, grabbing for his overcoat. Back on the trail again! "Who is she?"

"Allison Baster. She's... an old acquaintance." The detective rose in a flutter of white. "We should—"

A sharp knock at the door brought her up short. Without waiting for an invitation, a barrel-chested detective in brown suede forced his way into the room, all brilliant smiles.

"Baker!" Rex Action beamed at him. "And, yes, Inspector Layton. Or," his eyes glittered, and he touched the brim of his hat, "shall I call you Alcyone?"

"What can we do for you, DCI Action?" She demurred. Lucas felt his hackles go up.

"It's nothing. Mere curiosity!" He sighed with practiced drama. "I was hoping to get your thoughts on this chlorine vapor case. For—" He raised his voice recorder, tapping it against the shining badge on his suspenders, "posterity." And there was another of those obnoxious winks.

"I'm very sorry, but it will have to wait until another time," she countered with serenity. Lucas found himself wishing for a little Miss Hyde—maybe a few of her more colorful threats would chase this clod off for good. But she only tilted her head at him, directed Lucas through the door before her. He grabbed her coat off the rack as he went.

He waited outside the door for longer than he felt necessary. Action was detaining her, speaking in a low voice. Lucas heard the click of the recorder. Seconds more, and he'd be forced to mount a rescue mission. But sure enough, her curly head appeared, and she patiently beckoned the Chief Inspector out of their office. Action touched his hat at her, winked, and shot Lucas a knowing grin.

"What's he on about," he muttered to her when Action was out of earshot down the hall.

She shook her head, locking the frosted glass door. "He's a very... curious man."

\---

He'd offered her Dramamine on the trip down, but she shook her head, stubborn, muscling through the nausea. She needed to be alert, she reminded him. The last thing she needed was a surprise nap.

April had brought more than the usual amount of rain, drenching the deep greens of parks and lawns in a misty iron grey. Drops beaded on the windows like liquid glass, turning the land outside into a kaleidoscope of silver and green. 

He kept her busy with topics he knew she'd get chuffed over—the state of modern music, classic literature, the court verdicts of cases come and gone. Had she heard the latest Buddy Hollerday hit? Would it ever top "Wicked Woman (in a White Dress)"? Did she see Dustin Enochs got the lead on that new drama? Despite his best efforts and the rapid-fire topics, the Prof was looking green around the gills when the train came to their final stop.

"We catch a cab from here." She fairly leapt to her feet, rushing to the doors. 

Their ultimate destination, only a short ride from the station, was a quaint suburban home, split-level, with small, maintained lawn, and a well-loved minivan in the drive, covered in bumper stickers from local schools. Planters full of brightly-colored flowers lined the little porch, and a seasonal wreath hung on the door.

"Ee, it's...  _nice_ ." His eyes skimmed the "My child is an honor student at—" stickers. "I'd never think to find an informant living here."

"That's because you're a terrible judge of character."

He felt the skin along his spine prickle with cold. Lucas snapped his head up, eying her. "Y-you—"

Alcyone's regard had iced over in moments, an alternate set of emotions simmering behind her eyes. "Yes, yes. Me." She skewered him with a razor-sharp gaze. "Don't look so shocked. Baster is  _my_ acquaintance, after all."

Lucas stood in the rainy drive, shifting from foot to foot, shocked into silence by  _her_ appearance and struggling to think of something to say.

She heaved a belabored sigh. "Don't worry your little head, I'll do the talking. You linger nearby and look pretty." She placed a hand on one hip, cocked it like an example. "Is that within your ability?"

His face felt hot. "You don't have to—"

"Good. Come along."

The doorbell chimed, bright and cheerful. Lucas cast furtive glances to his partner, searching her expression for whatever she intended. Alcyone didn't deign to meet his gaze. This would be a train wreck—what was she going to inflict on these nice people...?

"Shouldn't your  _sister_ be handlin' this?" He finally hissed at her.

She continued staring at the door, though he thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "No."

Footsteps. The door opened, revealing a comfortably pretty middle-aged woman, with enormous brown hair, narrow shoulders, and wide wide hips. Pale white handprints dusted the sides of her apron. She peered at the two of them.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Baster." The Inspector gave her a servicable smile, and produced her badge from a coat pocket. She could keep up a pleasant facade when she needed to, he'd give her that. "I'm Inspector Layton of the New Scotland Yard, this is Detective Constable Baker. We called earlier this morning."

The woman continued to peer, before bursting into a brilliant, beaming smile. "Miss Layton! Oh, goodness, I hardly recognized you! Please, come in!"

Alcyone stepped in without further provocation, Lucas staring after her in wonder.

The inside was as homey and picturesque as the outside, adorned with exactly the right amount of framed family portraits, replica vases of fake flowers, and tasteful print fabrics. Baster directed them to a lovely sofa, just as comfortable as it looked. 

"Can I get you a tea? Biscuit? Freshly made!" 

_They would be_ , he thought. It was a homemaker's glittering fantasy come to life. 

"No, thank you," Alcyone spoke for the both of them. "We only need to question Allison, and we'll be on our way."

"You needn't be so quick about it," Mrs. Baster insisted. "Allie hasn't seen you in so long." Nevertheless, she marched to the stairs, and sang up to the top level, "Allison, dear, the Inspector's here! Did you know," she spoke again to the detectives, "she's thinking of attending University of Westminster in a few years? Criminal psychology!"

"That's nice," Alcyone intoned. Lucas could hear the tell-tale hitch of impatience creeping into her voice.

A young woman—girl, really, there was no other way about it—came bounding down the stairs, blonde hair streaming behind her, hot pink skirt fluttering about her knees. Her blue eyes were bright in her dark face (oddly, her skin put him in mind of DCI Action's ridiculous suede jacket), and they sparked with delight when they lit on Alcyone Layton.

"Miss Layton!" She shrieked.

"Hello, Allie." The Inspector was smiling—actually  _smiling_ . Lucas found himself staring.

"This is your informant?" He whispered, alarmed. She couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.

Alcyone gave him that look that set his nerves on fire—the look of having something up her sleeve and relishing her power over him. He felt the heat rising in his face.

"Lucas, this is Allison Baster. Allie, this is my associate, Detective Constable Lucas Baker."   

No wonder the Prof had had her doubts, what could a _teenager_ know about the DL-799 murder?   But Alcyone Layton and Allie Baster seemed to have some kind of history, to which he had never been privy. The girl was practically glowing at the sight of her, bouncing at the edge of her seat. He was firmly in third-wheel territory. 

So he took Alcyone's advice, and did his best to look pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Semester is winding down. It's time to get this moving again, because I've got Plans...


	4. Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last possible lead in the chlorine gas case doesn't pan out exactly as planned and tensions are running high. It doesn't help that Detective Rex Action is starting to lay it on thick, and Lucas is trying to play it cool re: crashing on his boss's couch.

Mrs. Baster took a seat across from Allie, her pleasant face beaming with pride. Allie bounced at the edge of her seat, watching Inspector Layton with no small amount of eagerness.

"It's been so long since your last letter," she burst out, her blue eyes wide and shining. "Nearly a year now. Did you get all of mine?"

"I did. You're a very prolific writer, aren't you?" She sighed dramatically. "But work has kept me _exceptionally_ busy."

Secret penpals, maybe? Lucas appraised the girl. If she really did intend to become a criminal psych major, she certainly couldn't find a better mentor than Alcyone Layton. Though the latter's unhealthy interest in criminology couldn't possibly be a good influence on a young girl. He privately wondered if Allison had ever noticed the Prof's little _changes_.

"A good year for the Yard?" Allie was giggling, gleeful. "I saw one or two of your cases in the paper! Ones what quoted you. And another detective—this must be him, right?"

He cleared his throat at being finally addressed. "I'm Detective Constable Lucas Baker."

"The new partner, right?" Allie continued, speaking only to Alcyone. "It's been a while since the last one—Lawson?"

Alcyone's gaze sharpened, but she drummed her fingers on her lips as though lost in thought. "Lawson's incarceration brought an end to _that_ relationship, as I'm sure you know."

"She got what she deserved," Allie said, suddenly hot. "It's like I keep telling mum— _America_ hasn't stopped hanging those what earned it. Crooked cops. The _worst_!" She groaned, then mimed dangling from the end of a rope, lolling her tongue and rolling her eyes.

"Allison!" Mrs. Baster reproached her half-heartedly.

The inspector smiled again from under her fingers, unsettling and alluring all at once. Lucas swallowed far too much tea and suppressed the urge to cough. They were both a little potty, that at least explained the friendship. But how much did this Baster girl know about the Prof, exactly?

"Did mum tell you about Westminster?" Allie barreled on. "Criminal psychology! It's a few years yet, but I thought I'd get a—"

"Allie," the inspector interrupted her, firmly. "Do you know anything about the dock murder from Sunday night?"

Mrs. Baster drew in a sharp breath, her spine stiff as a board. She glanced between Layton and the girl, eyes wide. Allie had stopped speaking with a little " _uh_ ," and blanched to a spectacular shade of dove grey. Lucas shot his partner a questioning look. She didn't return any in kind.

"Tea?" Mrs. Baster broke in, shrill, rising to her feet. "Biscuit?"

"I'd love a cuppa," Lucas beamed at her, trying to smooth everything over through sheer force of personality.

But Alcyone was still staring fixedly at the teen girl, who now fiddled with the sleeve of her blouse. Allie didn't raise her eyes until her mother left the room. "I don't know anything about that," she said, fidgeting, cagey. "Is this a new case you're working on?"

"A man who had been hiring prostitutes was found in a dock storeroom, dead of asphyxiation due to chlorine gas," Alcyone continued, matter-of-fact as a news reader, her gaze acid-bright.

"Prof," Lucas protested, "that's not exactly a public matter yet."

"Chlorine?" Allie's eyes fluttered about the room.

"Have you had any contact with your mother recently?" She asked the girl in a low tone, her brows knitting.

"No," was the girl's immediate response. "No, I haven't heard from her in years." The hurt in her tone was as plain as day. "She don't even ask me to come visit anymore."

"Allie," and the Inspector's voice took a strange turn, still a quiet intensity but with an edge of desperation. "Where were you Sunday night?"

"She was with us," came a stout reply from the doorway. Mrs. Baster carried a steaming mug and a tray of baked goods. "Amberly Castle, on holiday. Didn't get back until Monday morning." The tray made rather more noise than it should have, dropped on the coffee table between them. The biscuits rattled. Lucas's leg began to jitter.

Allie nodded, her lips white and trembling. "L-look..." She flew from the chair to the house entryway, and Lucas craned to watch her. She came back back with a fistful of polaroids, amateur shots of three people in front of a venerable castle and emerald green lawns—Mrs. Baster; a tall, thick-necked man with his arm around her; and a dark, blonde teenager that was undeniably Allie Baster.

Lucas glanced over them out of habit. He found stark terror in her eyes when he looked up, and gave her his best reassuring smile.

"Ms. Layton, is my Allison a proper suspect of something, or is this mere curiosity?"

The housewife was sweating, white visible in her eyes. She stood implacably between Alcyone and Allie, a mother bear. Lucas balled up his fists, feeling like his face was about to burst into flames any second. He wanted to say _no, of course not_ —but the truth was he had little to no idea why the Prof had brought them there in the first place.

The inspector was tense, perched at the edge of the couch, her glittering eyes flickering between the photos and the agitated family. She settled on Lucas's face for a fraction of a second, looking for—well, he couldn't even begin to guess. After a heartbeat, she leaned back and smiled, the usual, terrifying way, with all her teeth.

"In truth?" She ran a hand through her wild hair, casually. "No, not at all. But, please understand, we are _very_ thorough at the Yard."

"Of course." Mrs. Baster gave her a hard look.

"See, mum, it's fine," Allie said, colour returning to her complexion. She shot her mother a withering look. "Inspector Layton is _very_ good at her job, she just needs to rule out all _possible_ leads."

"Well!" Lucas drank his tea as fast as humanly possible, scalding his tongue in the process. "Ta very much for your time, Mrs. Baster, I'm sure that'll do it for us." He jumped to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his partner nodding as she rose. "I'm sure the Pr—Inspector Layton will get back to your letters soon, Allie."

The girl glowed like the sun, all fear fled from her eyes. "Actually, what I'd really love is a tour of Scotland Yard! It's Easter Break, and I can't think of a better time!"

"I hardly think—" Alcyone began, but Lucas had already cut in with "That sounds bomb! We'll work out a day this week, alright?"

Mrs. Baster was all too happy for them to leave, though Allison, for the mini-interrogation she'd been through, was altogether no worse for wear, and visibly disheartened to see Inspector Layton go.

They were barely off the porch when Lucas rounded on her. "What on Earth were you on about?" He demanded. "She's just a kid, Prof! You can't be tellin' her about... about prostitutes and dead men and poison gas!"

She startled away from him, eyes wide like he'd struck her. He'd caught her off guard. Before he could consider what this meant, she surged forward. "My sincerest apologies for interrogating her without first asking your approval, DC Baker! How amateur of me to assume I know what I'm doing!"

"You nearly accused a teenager of murder! In front of 'er _mum_!" He started to pace, lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair.

"After all this time, you still doubt my methods? Oh, but, of course," and he could practically see the venom dripping from her smile, "the saintly Lucas Baker must think youth confers undeniable innocence."

"Oh aye, it's a contributin' factor at least," he snapped. "And you told 'er mum she weren't a suspect."

She laughed, tossing the raindrops out of her hair. "Certainly she isn't, not anymore! She can't have been in both West Sussex _and_ the scene of the crime."

"How can you—" He was stammering, he knew it, but he couldn't back down from this—she couldn't barge into people's homes and cause a mess whenever she pleased. "Isn't she your—your student or _friend_ or summat?"

"You poor, sweet thing." Her expression was _infuriating_ , condescending and gleeful and driving red hot needles straight into his heart. "You still think friends can't be suspects."

Lawson. He flinched.

"I admire your idealism, Baker." She tossed her hair, walking ahead, leaving him behind. "But I haven't _half_ the energy or time necessary to explain to you what you're missing."

He had to trot to catch up. "Well that's tough nuts, because I'm half'a the Mystery—"

"Don't you mean a third?" It was her turn to round on him, her smile fallen away.

"That's..." He took a step back. "Aye, I suppose that's right."

She followed him, stepping directly into his space. Her eyes were hard as citrine, boring into him. "There are three of us here, Baker," she said, her voice low and rough and cold against his face. "You can't will me away when I become _inconvenient_ for you."

Before he could react, she was gone again, checking her watch. "Next train leaves soon," she announced. "We'll hail a cab."

And that was that.

\---

He expected a fight the whole trip back, but the Layton sisters swapped sides almost immediately--one left bright red, to negotiate with a cabbie, and came back blue and heavy as a storm cloud. The newly placid Alcyone was quiet when they boarded the train, thin and faded in the dull roar of the crowd.

"Dramamine?" He asked when they began to move.

She shook her head. Two slender hands stuffed unruly auburn hair behind her ears. "How did it go with the Basters?"

"You don't remember?"

She looked very tired.

"Well," he began with a great exhale. "Well."

"I take it that means _not_ well." She smiled.

"The Basters were happy to see you—your, uh..."

"My other," she filled in patiently.

"Right. But it went south quick." He paused to read her face. She was unchanged. "The potty Prof asked Allie where she'd been on Sunday. It were a row."

"Did she have an alibi?"

"Aye. Pretty tight one. Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "And you—she asked if Allie'd heard from her mother. I guess," and he peered at Alcyone, trying to read the answers in her face, "I guess Mrs. Baster _isn't_ her mum?"

"Had she heard from her?"

"No, and she looked sorry for it."

She shifted her attention out the window, and chewed her lip.

"Is that bad?" He asked, leaning forward, his heart fluttering in his chest like a panicked bird.

"It's rather less than I'd hoped." She rubbed a temple with two fingers. "Did you notice anything else?"

"Allie seemed sus to me, but not like she'd done it." He crossed his arms, tapped his heel. "She were in a panic when Mental Red asked her about the murder. And she doesn't seem like the kind'a girl to get squeamish for that kind'a thing. But I guess she's not a suspect anymore."

They were silent a long time. Alcyone slumped against the window, hair tumbling every which way.

"I think I will have that Dramamine after all, Lucas," she said in a weak voice, covering her eyes with one hand.

She seemed to sleep for the rest of the journey. Lucas crossed and uncrossed his arms, tapped his feet, tried to look anywhere that wasn't her. The mystery informant was a wash--whatever the Prof had hoped for, she hadn't found. Worse, Lucas had less information than either of them, and they both seemed unwilling to speak on it at the moment, for whatever reason. Even without the cooperation of either Layton, he had a hunch the connection between all the disparate parts lay in Allison's mother, whoever or wherever she was. But how could any of this have implicated Allie in the first place?

His thoughts shifted uncomfortably to the altercation of earlier. _You can't will me away_. That wasn't necessarily what he wanted. He liked both Profs just fine. Maybe one more than the other. The perilous Prof was a figure of respect, at the very least. She was complicated, sure--a literal complication, flouncing and smirking and clawing her way into situations when they were least prepared for her. She was as brilliant as her counterpart, if nowhere near as personable--wasn't that the heart of the issue? Maybe if she made more of an effort to get along—

But the thought disquieted him even as he had it. Wishing one personality were more like the other was exactly what he'd been accused of doing: willing her away. Then what was the solution? Continue to let her run roughshod over everyone in her life? He couldn't ignore what was happening to the peaceful Alcyone lately--all the fugues. She was having more and more spots of missing time, and he knew it was her alter ego locking her out. And lately she'd looked so lost and... and depressed. What did it feel like to be slowly edged out of your own life?

There had to be a way to mediate relations between the two of them. What if she never... got better?

The slow, gentle lurch of the train coming to a stop roused his partner. They followed the current of the crowd, silent, and spoke little on the way back to the Yard.

\---

"It's necessary to begin considering that DL-799 may go cold."

Lucas grunted, slouching in his chair. "It's only been a day."

"Yes," Alcyone agreed. "A day of no further leads, suspects, or revelations.

The office felt unusually claustrophobic that day, dark and dry. Despite the fast and furious filing of yesterday, there were still stacks of folders left unresolved, baskets full of disconnected clippings and notes. The drab mid-April weather did nothing to improve it, dull grey light drifting through the two small windows and obscuring more than illuminating. Lucas stared up at the ceiling, fingers laced in his lap, thumbs twiddling at breakneck speeds.

"I know it's not your usual rate of work, but..." He studied the ceiling panels, hoping to find what he was looking for. "But maybe just one more day?"

"It's all right," she said, though she sounded not at all assured. "Unsolved cases are simply part of investigative reality."

He frowned at nothing. "Not for us, though."

She was silent, spinning the ring on her thumb and staring out the window.

A rapid knock brought them both back to Earth, nearly rocketing Lucas out of his chair. Alcyone cleared her throat, and the door opened before she could speak.

"Mystery Room!" DCI Rex Action entered, barrel-chest first, an armful of blue hydrangeas spilling over the sleeve of his tan leather jacket. Lucas bit down on a groan.

"DCI Action," Alcyone sighed. "What can we do for you? Again?"

"Another trifling matter, I'm sure." The broad-shouldered man attempted to pay her deference but the cluttered room left him very little space to maneuver. "I've come on a mission of goodwill and atonement. It's come to my attention that your birthday has come and gone." With great care and skill, he found an empty space on her desk for the vase of hydrangeas--though the bulk of it still displaced a stack of loose papers, which he disregarded with equal care and skill.

Lucas's eyebrows shot up, and he looked to Alcyone. She tapped her chin with the tips of her fingers, equally puzzled. "My birthday?"

"You got the Prof flowers," Lucas remarked, appraising them with a stink-eye.

"I hope you can forgive my delay." Action smiled at her, a brilliant thing in the dark, crowded room, and brushed the wide brim of his hat with his hand. "Terrible form, not in my character at all." Now that he was unburdened, he had produced his signature voice recorder again, and clicked it on.

"This is really too much trouble," she informed him, knitting her brows, looking from flowers to recorder.

"Why, it's not nearly _enough_ in my opinion." He ran his thumb up and down the inside of his suspenders, his chest sufficiently enhanced. _Like a big ape_ , Lucas thought. _Dressed like an action hero_. His badge shone through the murk of the office air. "It had, in fact, been my intention to invite you to a midafternoon meal, schedule permitting, but, alas, you were nowhere to be found!"

"Isn't that one'a those conflicts of interest?" He asked pointedly, turning to her to see if she shared his opinion. Not that he'd know, from thinking about it, frequently, in the last 24 hours.

Alcyone was staring up at the chief inspector with an unusually intense look on her face. "We've been investigating DL-799 to the best of our abilities," she explained. When he failed to respond, she elaborated, "the chlorine gas case."

"Yes! Yes, of course you have." He beamed. "But--and I'll hope you forgive my presumption--but I had it known from several sources that you rarely leave the office save on the most important business."

"We were lookin' into a potential lead." He didn't know why he was still trying to speak up, given how the chief inspector hadn't so much as glanced at him.

"Indeed!" Action repositioned his voice recorder on his arm, closer to Alcyone.

"Yes, Allison Baster lives just within distance of the office." She made minute adjustments to the vase of flowers. Action's smile faltered and grew thin, and he was at an apparent loss of what to say. At his silence she continued, "My apologies--you likely don't remember her. DE-375, the Lola Bieze case."

"Why, the Lola Bieze case!" He recovered himself, but Lucas was already watching him hard. "Then Allison Baster must be...?" He trailed off. Alcyone tilted her head up at him, quiet. Action cleared his throat. "Yes, there _are_ similarities between the two cases, aren't there? Well done, well done. I knew I'd be placing the investigation in good hands."

Another knock at the door. The recorder clicked off, and he stuffed it in a jacket pocket.

DCI Action tugged the collar of his jacket. "Well, _do_ let me know if there's anything I can assist you with, of course I'll be perfectly willing to do whatever it takes to assist the great Inspector Layton in her work."

"And DC Baker," she added for him, smiling, leaning over to direct a "Come in" at the door."

"Yes, yes." Action was already worlds away. A diminutive figure with a mountain of curly ginger hair ran into him from behind, and squawked. Action barely noticed. "We'll take a rain cheque on lunch then, won't we? Good day, Inspector."

"Flowers and lunch with Rex?" The ginger adjusted the thick glasses balanced precariously on their nose, and leered at Alcyone. "Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"It's for my birthday, it seems." She gave a tiny shrug.

"I thought you were a Gemini, Layton!"

"Sniffer, mate!" Lucas had never been more glad to see the detective sergeant. "What do you have for us?"

"Sniffer" Hague was a figure of much curiosity to Lucas, ever since their first meeting. He'd first referred to Hague as a young man, only to cause great offense. He immediately corrected himself and addressed the junior detective as a young lady, only to create just as much irritation as before. When he asked his new superior for clarification, Alcyone Layton had calmly asserted it was possibly the least relevant thing anyone could concern themselves with in regards to the Sniffer. Lucas fell back on the least gender-specific terminology he could, much to the benefit of his relationship with Hague.

"Listen up," Sniffer started, a thumb under their nose and a wide smile on their freckled face. "Those stiffs in the lab have a bet going and I'm fixin' to put the squeeze on 'em this time. They think you can't pin this one in less than an hour, and I've got good quid on you wrapping it with bows on in less than 45. You got me?"

"I'm game." Lucas took the file, opened it to the mugshots. "What's the scoop?"

A steady stream of slang and jargon filled the little room as Sniffer laid out the details—Lucas found himself drifting while words poured in one ear and out the other. The grainy mugshots brought him back to Mr. Nowitt, Mrs. Garner, Mr. Cash. The statements were a blur of smeary type. He finally handed the file to Alcyone, who looked equally distant.

"And that's the gist of it," Sniffer finished, dusting their hands, self-satisfied. "Remember, 45 or less, or the clubhouse'll give me a fair ration of bull."

"You'll be hearing from us soon," Alcyone murmured, flipping through pages of statements.

Silence filled the room again as it was left to the two of them.

"What if Garner and Cash were in conspiracy," Lucas spoke up.

"There's no Garner in this case," was her response, though she gave him a thoughtful look. "That conspiracy would have to include the restaurant that vouched for them."

"Or just t'one maître d," Lucas shot back. He paced the narrow expanse of empty floor. "A good bribe'd do it."

"Cash lost most of his holdings in a bad investment with Mr. Garner. That was his potential motive."

"Right."

Silence again. The soft rustle of paper. Outside, the city lights were flickering on, mixing deepening indigo with halogen orange.

"Unless the bribe weren't money!" He came back. "Some other kind'a, er, favor?"

"We have other evidence that places Mrs. Garner at the restaurant," Alcyone reminded him.

"Pretty circumstantial, really. A tomato stain? A chipped mani?"

"I appreciate your perseverance, Lucas," she said in a firm tone that brooked no further suggestions.

He collapsed into his chair again with a huff, studying the ceiling tiles. Alcyone scratched notes directly into the file, fiddled with the scene reconstruction data chip.

"Mrs. Baster—" He began.

"Is not a suspect, either."

"No, I know that," he insisted. "I'm just wonderin' about the Basters, in general. Why'd you think she'd have somethin' to do with the murder?"

"It's difficult to explain." She pursed her lips, reaching to hand him the case file. "What are your instincts on this one?"

"Oh." He cracked it open again--she had strategically underlined and made notes of the pertinent information. "The swimsuit model."

"Lucas."

"Really, she says she had no idea how old he were but she wrote 'Happy 50th, Frank!' on 'is card."

She heaved a gusty sigh. "That's better than nothing, I suppose."

"About the Basters—" He pressed, handing the file back.

"I'll call Sniffer with the news." She was up in a flutter of white.

"What, already?" Lucas glanced from the darkening window to the clock. "Only fifteen, he'll be chuffed."

"We should close up anyway," she said, punching numbers on the office phone. "You'll need to be situated properly."

"Situa—" He thought of the duffel bag in the corner of the office and immediately the blood rushed to his face. His flat. Her flat. He could hear Sniffer's cries of joy through the phone and across the room.

When Alcyone hung up, Lucas was still vibrating subtly in his chair, doing his best to keep from jittering or fidgeting. Her flat--extra rooms? Extra bed? Would the morning runs throw anything off? What did she sleep in? What should _he_ sleep in?

She reached for the coat rack. "About Allison Baster," she began.

All movement stopped. He looked at her with unguarded interest. "Aye?"

Auburn curls poured about the collar of her blue coat. "I can explain on the way."

"Aye!" He was on his feet, bag and jacket in hand. "The suspense has been killin' me, to be honest. No one'll tell me nowt."

"The Basters," she started, locking the door behind them, leading the way down the dim hall, "adopted Allison when she was eight."

"So, you were both adopted?" He asked, looking for the overlap.

"Yes, that's one connection." She nodded at front security as they passed the main entrance. "Before becoming a Baster, she was a Bieze--namely, Lola Bieze's daughter."

"From that case you mentioned to Action!"

"Yes, DE-375."

The night was cloudy but rainless, London lights painting the thick sky yellow and orange. They splashed through shallow puddles along the sidewalk, dodging the deeper ones with the preternatural awareness that comes from living in the city.

"Lola Bieze was a member of the oldest profession," she continued, curt. "A career with its own set of dangers."

"Bieze were a streetwalker. Got it."

Alcyone gave him a sidelong look. They managed to keep abreast of each other through the crowd leading down into the station. "It was apparently not her ideal profession, as she took revenge on her... manager."

"Revenge? Like, theft?"

"Murder, actually."

"Oh." They squeezed through the turnstiles, and Lucas had to lean in close to hear her better.

"It wasn't a few days after his body was located that she was apprehended. I was told the subsequent investigation and trial would have been quick and relatively painless, if it weren't for the fact that a child was involved."

"Allison!"

There was no seating left, and there was nothing for it but to stand and hang on to the railing like a couple of zoo animals.

"Allison Bieze was seven when her mother was arrested and sentenced to life with possibility of parole. There were... concerns." They were close enough he could see the worry lines in her forehead when she frowned. "She'd grown up in a home of questionable health and security. Her father was a mystery."

"So she was an at-risk kid? Issat why you wanted to question 'er?"

She shook her head, curls bouncing free. "The murder weapon, so to speak, in her mother's case was a home-brewed chlorine gas."

The car lurched, knocking half the passengers off their feet. Without thinking, he dropped the bag and snaked his free arm out to catch her. She stumbled backward into him. The pertinence of what he'd done hit him as hard and fast as a freight train.

"I'm sure you can see the cause for my concern," she said evenly, looking up at him, unmoved.

"Aye. A.. absolutely." He helped her back to her feet, letting his hat sink down over his eyes, trying hard to not think of how her hair smelled.

"But Allison's mother is still under maximum security," she continued, the train regaining its speed. "With no parole hearing for another eight years, at minimum."

"Then, you think this were a copycat?" He asked, recovering himself.

"Or someone acting under Lola Bieze's guidance, from prison. Sadly, Allison had no information to offer in that regard."

The crowd slowly streamed off the train like sand through a funnel. They were caught up in the current, separated for a time. He found her waiting for him by the exit turnstiles.

"How d'you know Allison to begin with?" He pressed. "Extracurricular program?" Her wry smile brought him to a full stop, in the middle of the street. "You were on that case, weren't you?"

"In a manner of speaking. DE-375 was my third case at the Yard," she admitted. "Seven years ago, Lawson and I fielded the investigation and ultimately cornered and arrested Bieze after a brief standoff."

He whistled, trotting to keep up and avoid an oncoming car. "And Allison still, er, looks up to you."

"One of me, at least." She led him to a metal-banded door in an alcove off the street, produced a key. "I can't account for it. But she's a clever girl and she has a bright future ahead of her." The door swung open and she gestured him up the stairs.

"If she can get beyond her past," he countered.

"That seems to be well behind her. Or so I thought, until I heard what her reaction was upon being asked about Sunday's murder." She clicked a light switch, illuminating a small entry, a narrow kitchen, a living room with modern furnishings.

"If she even _were_ a suspect, what would she have against Uri Garner?"

"Remember his wife's statements? Garner had been 'purchasing companionship,' in her words." She shed her outwear and hooked it on a nearby rack, then held out her hand to him.

"But you said Lola's killings were out'a revenge," he protested, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to her. "Unless you mean to say Allison's got into her mum's line of work."

"I'm reluctant to make such claims." She pursed her lips. "But, at the very least, you now know almost exactly as much as I do. The settee has extra blankets and pillows," she gestured to the sofa in the living room, "and the bathroom is off the hall to your right."

"The what is what?" He froze.

Alcyone Layton's flat was modern yet cluttered, with an open kitchen and large floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the living room. She was currently engaged in the act of closing the rattling vertical blinds, shutting out an incredible view of the city skyline. Newspaper clippings papered the walls in strategic locations. The small table in the dining room featured a centerpiece of a single old pizza box. A neat stack of quilts at the end of a deep, red sofa. A discarded sweater she bent to retrieve. Artificial lavender, with a hint of cigarette smoke.

He shifted from foot to foot, not sure where to look. Alcyone stopped in front of him, a questioning look on her face, arms full of misplaced laundry. "Is something wrong?"

Lucas wanted to brush it off as nothing, play as cool as possible, as cool as she had been about the whole arrangement. _I'm saving a mint staying here! Thanks, mate! Buddy! Coworker!_

"I'm sleeping on my boss's couch," he whined.

She broke into a smile, and laughed, a sound he rarely got to hear. "Justine used to do it all the time."

_This is not the same situation and you know it_! But he grinned, and raised his duffel bag in a mock salute. "Aright, just... don't look when I'm changin', alright?"

Alcyone snorted, and disappeared down the hall.

"Justine," not "Lawson." He dropped the bag at the foot of the sofa, trying to work out the logistics of his sleeping place for the next week. His eyes skimmed over a cluster of cutouts, headlines and bylines blurring together. Much like how they were arranged in the Mystery Room, there seemed to be no apparent connection, beyond the presence of a crime and a criminal. An out-of-place photo startled him--grainy, black and white on yellowing paper, three figures in a candid. Carefully he plucked it from the collection. A tall, cool blond in a light jacket speaking into a reporter's mic. Behind him, two women: one broad-chested, with inky hair and a crooked nose; the other a full head taller, wearing a sharp blazer and a look of pretentious boredom, her hair shorter than he'd ever seen it and unconscionably wild.

Lucas sat heavy on the edge of the couch, studying the photo, rubbing the back of his neck. "SCOTLAND YARD'S NEW DREAM TEAM?" The caption asked. They looked casual and intimate all at once, heads together unconsciously, caught in the act of conferring--a single unit, inseparable. He had no way of knowing how long this had been taken before Lawson had gone off the rails, Layton had been left for dead in the hospital, Pertinax had washed his hands of the whole thing.

He stuck it back to the wall where he'd found it and reclined back on the couch, hands behind his head.

_You still think friends can't be suspects_.

 


	5. Dressing Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas and Alcyone have an incredibly awkward morning, only to discover there's been a second murder connected to DL-799--but did DCI Action apprehend the right man?

The rain fell like knives. She had no umbrella. The car door slammed shut behind her. Forbodium loomed in the night, a giant's two black arms, fists clenched at the storm.

Puzzle pieces fell like bits of the sky. Anger, adrenaline, triumph, fear. It was all over, ending. It surged up in her like a fire, her head was ablaze. Lightning turned the sky white, a shadow darted from a high window. She flew down the cobblestones ( _Brianne d'Nom size seven violet leather upper eight centimeter stacked heel_ ) like a nightmare. Is this what a cat feels like? Pupils big and black as an inverted sun, everything in high contrast high relief. 

No—dread, ice cubes rattling in her chest. A predator can't feel regret. What was causing it? That wasn't how she felt, not when it happened, but she can't reason with what's happening.

The castle was filled with yellow-green curls and wisps. It was hard to breathe but she skimmed the stairs like a howling wind. All over, all ending, twenty-five corpses avenged and twenty-five families notified and twenty-five funerals absolved. She felt responsible, didn't she? But for what? She hadn't put those people in the ground. The reasoning fell short—her case, her suspects, her barely-there evidence. She felt responsible, she relived it, it pushed against the backs of her eyes.

This is where it happened. Time and fear and sickness welled up around her, puddled yellow-green at her feet. History made translucent layers of itself, photo negatives stacked on top of each other. The stones melted into mud under her heels. The sky pulled away with a dolly zoom. Forbodium is where Lola Bieze lived, squat and rambling and half boarded-up, crammed into a dark alley between a curry house and an abandoned shack. Bieze hid from them in the kitchen, her pimp's stolen pistol in her hand, her daughter stashed away in the bedroom.

She kicked in the door ( _Hattie Couture size seven black patent ten centimeter wrapped fabric heel_ ) and shrapnel flew, splinters dancing through the air like snow. Her chest burned, red soaked through the front of her blazer. Wood stuck out of her like a stake, threatened to pierce her heart.

He was standing there in the dark hallway. A black morning coat, iron-gray waistcoat, plum-colored cravat, ridiculous silk hat. Keelan, young, blond, smiling under his mother's crooked nose. He wasn't supposed to be there, in Lola Bieze's hallway. That's not how it happened. None of this was right. But she couldn't change it. The Makepeace boy raised his arms to her, clad in pristine violet gloves.

She never shot him. Her hands were empty. She _couldn't_ have shot him. She wanted to scream it out loud. 

A sharp crack echoed in the room, rippling the yellow-green air. Blood poured down his temple and into his left ear. His eyes rolled up into his head, brilliant and white as the teeth in his still-present smile. He didn't fall over when he died, still standing, still smiling, still reaching for her.

It was hard to breathe. The gas hurt her lungs. Her vision blurred and the room filled with dead young men. Allison stood behind her with the gun raised and streaming green smoke. She was doubled, both her faces cold and emotionless and flecked with blood and brain.

Her throat hurt from the gas, or maybe the screaming.

\---

He stumbled over a curb.

Lucas squinted into the grey, misty morning. He was flying down a sidewalk, beneath street lamps still lit with halogen orange. Sweat and condensation beaded down his back, under his shirt. He must have just passed his fourth kilometer.

Though his legs stung and his feet had unerringly kept him off the street and out of danger, he had no ready idea of where he was. This wasn't his neighborhood, to be sure—the buildings were too modern, too posh. He didn't see another living soul. Even the cabs were gone.

His neck twinged when he turned his head to gather evidence. He must have slept rough. On the couch. A settee, actually, that's what the Prof had called it. The word "settee" unlocked the rest of his memory—his building was closed, he was staying at her flat, she lived on the second storey behind a metal door. All the rooms smelled like lavender and smoke. He'd woken up in the night to muffled shrieks.

The last bit concerned him the most. He tried not to put too much effort into recalling the path back to her building, letting muscle memory transport him there. This seemed a relatively safe neighborhood, and he didn't recall hearing stories about her unpleasant neighbors.

And there was her metal door, recessed into a stone alcove, shining with rain. He stopped here, stretching out his tingling calves. Unless—that hadn't been _her_ screaming, had it? The thought chilled him. If she'd been in any danger, surely she would have—but maybe it was just a rough night? He couldn't remember in what state he had left her flat, and maybe she was still asleep. 

Lucas took the stairs as quietly as possible, though his legs screamed with the effort, and opened the door into her home with professional silence. But he needn't have bothered after all, because there she was. 

There she _was_. The small table in the dining room was overlaid with pages from today's paper, a cup of deep red tea staining a ring into the editorial pieces, a crystal ashtray holding down the sports page. Alcyone was absorbed with what looked like page two of headline news, a cigarette between two long fingers sending curls of blue smoke into the air. Her long bare legs were tucked up under her, red curls stuck out at all angles, her yellow eyes were ringed and dark and hard. 

In only a glance he could tell she was wearing—well, she _wasn't_ wearing—she was very nearly—

"You do this every morning?" She remarked coolly, jamming the cigarette into the ashtray. The paper sagged in her hand when she reached for the tea. Bare white shoulders, long long expanse of skin from throat to collarbone to the low edge of a powder-blue bra cup—

He physically turned away, unable to see or think or even parse an answer to her question. He heard her snort. "Please, do you expect to have a conversation with me by way of the back window?"

"I don't wanna be rude," he muttered, edging past her with a carefully guarded gaze. Not that rudeness was something _she_ ever cared one jot about, but it felt weird to—he couldn't just—he didn't feel right just _ogling the Prof_. He kept his mind on the bag of his clothes at the foot of the settee. "Could—er, do you wanna—"

"If you're suggesting I _cover my shame_ , I must ask you to remember whose home you're standing in." The paper rustled in her hand. "And really, Lucas, there's no need to play at revulsion." 

There was a smirk in her voice he couldn't tolerate. He glanced up from his duffel bag for a fraction of a second—her eyes were on him, from around the edge of the paper, and she gave him a knowing, dangerous smile.

"I'm not playing at nowt." His ears burned.

"Shall I pretend to stumble so you can catch me in your young, strong arms again?" She laughed, merciless. "Detective Constable Baker! My virtuous knight." One slender hand pressed itself to her forehead, and she faked a swoon.

A hot wave of a panic swept over him. The train last night. He thought she hadn't—but that had been the other Prof, so maybe— 

"That were an accident," he stammered, feeling uncomfortably like a kid squaring off with the school yard bully. If the school yard bully were a model-tall, wild-eyed redhead in only her knickers. 

"Ah, and I suppose you're accidentally blushing now," she replied gleefully. "And all the over-long, wistful gazes, those were surely accidental."

He snatched up his clothes as fast as he could manage, stumbling to his feet. Of _course_ she had figured it out. Who was he kidding thinking he hide something like that from Inspector Layton?

She was on her feet as well, moving to intercept him at the entrance to the hall, another smile on her face—the kind of smile a cat would make before catching the canary. "The bathroom is on the right," and she jerked her head in the general direction, never taking her eyes off him, the smile growing wider as his blush deepened.

"You're enjoyin' this a little too much," he accused her, though his tongue felt thick in his mouth. 

She was standing far, far too close. Her eyes glittered like yellow diamonds. "Your bashfulness is rather more appealing than I thought it would be."

And if he weren't positive she was badgering him just for the sake of being... well, herself, he might even have enjoyed it a little more. "Listen, Red, I don't want--" Soldier on, old boy, ignore the heat in your face. "I don't want your, er, sister to know about..."

She quirked an eyebrow. 

"To know how I feel, about..." God, it was like trying to find something to cling to after your ship sank. "I don't want to ruin t' _professional_ relationship or owt, so you can rib me as much as you want if you promise not to tell her."

He watched her eyes move across his face, flickering like candle flames. What she was looking for, he couldn't say, but the smile was replaced with her usual mask of condescension. "And ruin all this fun we're having? Of course not." Her words were full of sharp, bright ice, and she returned to her chair at the table, snapping up the cigarette in her hand.

When he exited the bathroom, showered, dressed, and wary, she had changed into a heavy turtleneck, ubiquitous shrink-to-fit jeans, and a smooth, calm expression. Though relief flooded into him, he couldn't lose the suspicion grappling at his heart.

"I'm sorry about the dearth of food in the kitchen," she told him from the table, grey-blue and serene. The ashtray had disappeared. The tea was pale and creamed. The paper was neatly collected and rolled. "Breakfast has always been my least favorite meal of the day."

"Me too," he offered, watching her for any signs of... awareness.

"Will you be ready to head to the office soon?" She smiled the same patient little smile he'd always seen before.

He relaxed in an instant. "Aye. Now I haven't got a good excuse to be late, have I?"

\---

Lucas tried to avoid physical contact in the subway, which ultimately proved an impossibility. He hoped his actions at least looked the very model of platonic friendship. 

"I apologize for my sister's poor behavior earlier," she told him as they approached the front entrance to the Yard.

"O-oh?" His heart began to race. 

She nodded, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind one ear. "It was quite... disorienting, to realize I had been undressed for so long." No discomfort showed in her features.

"Ah! Well!" He lowered his volume to a whisper, nodding as nonchalantly as he could manage to the front security. They made only a cursory glance at his visible badge before returning to their papers. "Nowt I haven't seen b'fore, right?"

She gave him a curious look. "Have you seen me undressed before?"

The guards looked up with renewed interest. Lucas must have turned five shades of red. "That's not at all what I meant!" He hissed.

Alcyone tapped her chin with her fingertips. "Other women, then?"

"Aye aye, ta for finally gettin' it, _please lower your voice_."

"I apologize," and she dutifully lowered her volume when they passed into the hall. "I thought I understood such behavior conferred social ranking."

More hurried smiles and casual nods at coworkers when they passed, Alcyone puzzling through something he really wished she hadn't latched on to. The open offices of the Yard--the Pit, he remembered Sniffer calling it—were swarming with officers, the low rumbling buzz of professionals only on their second cuppa. It was busier than he'd ever seen it. The early morning crowd looked like a different sort, and Lucas felt a little sheepish at his chronic tardiness.

A pretty little blonde in half-moon spectacles peeled off from a cluster of desks, eyes bright when she found Lucas. What was her name again? Erin? No, B-something.

"Sich was looking for you," she let him know, fiddling with the badge at the front of her tan blazer, obviously trying not to smile when she looked at him. "DL-799 related."

"Did she tell you why?" Alcyone asked.

The shorter inspector stared up at her, as though only now realizing she were there. "I'm sorry, but it isn't my case, now, is it, Layton?" She asked hotly.

Alcyone tapped her chin again, apparently lost in thought.

"Ta, Inspector," Lucas cut in, still flubbing on her name, "we'll go track him down."

The blonde smiled at him again, a little overlong. The crew in the desks behind her began laughing at something uproariously, and Lucas watched her eyes light with fire. "This is Scotland Yard!" She shouted to the officers behind her. "This isn't the happiest place on earth! Everyone back to work!"

It was as good an excuse as any to dodge further conversation with her. Lucas darted away down the hall, Alcyone easily catching up to him.

"Have you seen Blair Dartwright?" Alcyone whispered to him.

"Ugh, _that's_ her name, ta for—wait, no!" The nature of her question dawned on him. "What do you think I am, Prof??"

"Is this line of questioning too personal?"

"I jus' don't want you thinkin' I'm some kinda male trollop!"

"Oscar! Felix!" The telltale squeak of wheels. Florent rolled around the corner of a standing cubicle, his chest heaving, his usually sunken eyes shining in their sockets. "DL-799! Good news, bad news!"

He seemed out of breath, and Lucas didn't want to push him, but before they could so much as ask for the news Florent had done an about-face, leading them around the offices to one of the interrogation rooms.

"Second death," he informed them between rattling gasps. "Suspect detained."

"A second death??" Lucas demanded. 

"Who is the suspect?" Alcyone asked with unusual heat.

Florent bobbed his head by way of apology, still breathing heavily. They continued to follow. A second death put DL-799 firmly in serial murderer territory, and it wouldn't just be an isolated copycat—it would be the Chlorine Killings or something equally pithy, as though a clever name could encapsulate the terror of multiple deaths.

Alcyone caught the door for Florent, and he veered inside, stopping at the dark two-ways to catch his breath. The two detectives waited patiently, Lucas snatching a glance or two at the man sitting alone in the room, already trying to grab for connections. Soft profile—chinless, big brown eyes—with his meaty hands cuffed in front of him, tugging at the collar of a crisp blue button-up. He looked old enough to be Allison Baster's father--maybe a man who fell in love with Lola Bieze even while she was incarcerated, and followed her instructions out of devotion?

Sich had finally calmed his breathing enough to find the updated case file for them. "The second body was found on an LBC studio lot." He retrieved the file-folder from the bag on the back of his chair. "We're running toxicology now."

"Toxicology?" Lucas passed the file to his partner, who dove into it immediately. "But it were chlorine gas, weren't it?"

He pulled his grey face into a grimace. "It's complicated. We don't think the gas is what killed him. Action's on the scene right now investigating, but he found this guy, Obadiah Sessions, confessing to everything and sent him to us. Insisted Al should do the interrogation."

She gasped, a quiet "oh!" escaping her lungs. Her eyes brightened like a power surge. "Excellent. _Excellent_." The smile widened, sharpened in an instant. She shut the file with a snap and pressed it into Lucas's chest. "At least that chest-beating gorilla knows how to properly delegate."

He shied away, pulling his hat down over his eyes. "Why are we interrogating if he already confessed?"

Sich was watching Alcyone with a keen look. "Beats the hell out of me. Action thinks you guys can get more info out of him."

"Disable the cameras for me, Florent, dear." She pinched her tongue between her teeth in a dirty grin, sliding out of her white jacket. "In ten minutes he'll be confessing to Ferdinand, Lincoln, and Caesar."

Lucas could have sworn he heard Sich muttering "yikes," and he raised his hands in defense. "She's joking. I'm sure she's joking."

"Real funny. Follow up with Action when you're done with the stand-up." Sich let himself out, head down and shoulders hunched. The door to the interrogation room flew open with a _bang_. Lucas caught sight of red hair disappearing around the door frame. She was certainly eager to get started.

Alcyone took up both chairs opposite Sessions, propping her foot where Lucas should be sitting. He stood behind her against a corner, frowning, idly flipping the file papers.

"Good morning, Obadiah." She grinned at him, drumming her fingers on the desk between them. "Is it fine to call you Obie?"

Sessions stared at her, jaw a little slack, brown eyes freely roaming her stretched-out form. Lucas grit his teeth.

"You're a bit funny for a detective." He spoke as though his tongue were just a touch too big for his mouth.

"Oh, do you think so? The show hasn't even started yet." She dropped her leg, bent over the desk, her hands clasped and her teeth bright in the dark room. 

"So you were in LBC studio 4 yesterday during t'incident?" Lucas asked, aimlessly leafing through the papers, searching for bits of info that stuck out to him.

"I did it," Sessions drawled. The chain stretched between his hands, both flat on the table, heat marks from his palms slowly creeping along its surface. He seemed implacable, completely unmoved. "Like I told the ovver officer, I killt Enochs and I don't care none if you lock me up for good."

Enochs? He lifted page after page. _Dustin_ Enochs? There was the victim profile, and shots of the crime scene—a beautiful young man with dusky skin lay motionless on a cot in a crowded dressing room, windows shut, cleaning bucket by his feet. It was unmistakably Dustin Enochs, the up-and-coming LBC actor. He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Alcyone, who was busy pulling a thread from her sleeve.

"W-why Enochs?" Lucas had never had direct interaction with the young man, only his witness statements from the infamous Blaise O'Glory case. He seemed a bit mercenary, but not, well, murderable. 

"He 'ad it comin', innit?" The suspect's tone was dark, ominous. "Been in a thorn in our side ever since he got this big role. Rose-scented candles _only_. Yella Smarties _only_. Bottle water at 20º _only_. None of us blokes allowed to look'im in the eye, only the birds." He fixed Lucas with a watery brown stare. "I couldn't take the insult anymore."

It was just a matter of vengeance for a bunch of perceived slights? Lucas eyed him again. He spoke roughly, calm for a man under pressure, but his gaze grew ever more strained, glassy. Sessions was squinting between the two of them. The whole thing already felt at odds with the previous murder—if the Prof's guess at Bieze's involvement was correct, why a high-profile target like Enochs after hitting a nobody like Garner?

Alcyone had been silent, unusually so. The trademark Miss Hyde Interrogation Techniques were late in coming. She planted a red trainer on the edge of the desk, rocked back, dangled her head over the edge of the chair. Her yellow eyes were hard and glittering, smile gone from her face.

"Baker, remind Obie what he does for a living, if you can call it such a thing."

He sighed, and flipped to the front page. "It says Set PA."

"A production assistant expects us to believe he killed his own actor on-set for something as petty as yellow candies." She continued rocking, scowling at him upside down. 

"I _did_ kill Dustin Enochs," Sessions insisted, his eyes very narrow and bright. "I warn't gonna take any more'a his—"

The front legs of her chair landed with an echoing crash, and she rocketed to her feet, slamming her hands on the desk. Her hair fell wild about her face. Sessions jumped away from her, cuffed hands flying to his stiff blue collar. They looked reversed--the implacable madwoman, the startled civil officer. "Tell me how you did it!" She demanded. "I'm not interested in any simple confession!" One hand raised in a tight claw around an imaginary neck, fingers trembling with tension. "Tell me about the _look_ on his face when he saw it was you, the recognition in his eyes even as the light within them died away!"

Sessions leaned as far away from her as he could, his eyes slits in his soft face, sweat glittering on his forehead and jowls. Lucas took tentative steps forward—he'd never had to interpose himself between her and a suspect, but it always paid to be cautious.

"What shade of purple were the bruises beneath your fingers?" She continued, her voice reaching a fever pitch. "Did you hear the celery- _crunch_ of his trachea?" She slammed her hands on the desk. "The _gurgling_ in his lungs? Did he try to scream your name, or did the last of his breath _rattle out of him_ like dry beans in a coffee tin?"

"Y-yeah." Sessions had turned a grey-green, quivering, revolted. "Yeah, alluh--that."

"You left him a grey, stiff corpse in his _own room_ ," she cried, in that potty, half-enraged, half-exulted way. "You crushed his throat over _Smarties_ , because that's what cold, implacable men like you _do_!"

"Yeah," he agreed, slightly renewed, his voice raising to match hers. "Yeah, I... I wrung 'is neck! For me and the boys! For what he did t'Bella!"

Lucas paused, and referred back to the file. "Bella Lovely?" He clarified. The actress convicted in the Blaise O'Glory case—the actress who'd had an affair with Enochs. 

Alcyone collapsed back in her chair, the frenzy passed. With one hand, she reached up to the file, and without looking pulled it to the third page. "Baker, remind Sessions of the cause of death," she ordered, her voice back to a low simmer.

He checked it, and double-checked it. "Er... respiratory depression."

"From?"

"Possible overdose of sleep medication. No... no signs'a struggle."

Alcyone planted her chin in her hand, pinning Sessions under her stare, her silence somehow more painful than the usual pointed words. He glanced back and forth between the two of them, slowly coming up to speed.

"Well, I did alluh that after I drugged 'im," he assured them with his previous calm.

Alcyone was on her feet without deigning to respond. The look he'd seen that morning passed over her again, her eyes dimming a little and her mouth a straight line. It was disappointment, he realized. "Another of Lovely's pathetic remnants," she spoke only to Lucas. "Action is wasting our time. Get this fake out of my sight."

"I ain't no fake!" Sessions roared. He was on his feet quicker than a man of his size ought to be, rounding the desk, big and bristling as an angry bear, hands in big sweating fists. He was too close too fast. Alcyone took a step back, unguarded shock on her face. "You tell them I did it, or Bella'll never—"

Muscle memory carried him forward. Lucas was in the man's space in an instant, arm around his neck, dragging him in a headlock to the back wall. Sessions's big body hit it with an echoing slam, his eyes shut tight.

"You're off for murder but about to get it for assault of an officer," Lucas informed him in a low voice.

Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. "I just... I just want Bella to see..."

Four more uniformed officers crashed through the door, barking orders, pulling the man out of Lucas's hold. Sessions was hauled away with little trouble, soon leaving the two detectives alone in the reverberating quiet of the interrogation room. Alcyone stood with a hand on the back of her chair, face hidden behind curls and shadows.

"Well, _that_ were the most interesting thing of the week, for sure," Lucas said finally. He dusted his hands on the legs of his trousers.

She looked at him from behind a curtain of red, her eyes like molten gold. "I had him," she insisted.

"Aye, but I _got_ 'im," Lucas returned, grinning.

She sighed and shook her head back and forth, tossing her hair, adjusting the thick neck of her sweater. "What a spectacular waste of resources! I should have known Action's incompetence would shine through somehow." She pushed her red hair behind both ears, and gave him a lascivious wink. "I'll leave you to the debriefing."

His ears burned. "What d'you—" But she bent at the waist, one hand at her stomach and another covering her eyes. "Come off it, Prof, you can't keep goin' back and forth like this."

She straightened, smoothing her hair. "It isn't always my decision," she murmured.

He cringed, placated only slightly. "Let's get back to t'office and give this new file a once-over." 

Alcyone barely had the energy to take her coat, and left it hanging limp over her arm. The cold restraint of professionalism kept him from offering her an arm. He reviewed for her the events of the interrogation, and she came to the same conclusion her sister had moments ago. "He was hoping to impress Bella Lovely."

"I'd hoped t'ave heard the last of that one." He grimaced. If Enochs had been mercenary, Lovely was downright _sordid_ , and she'd taken too much a liking to Lucas during that investigation last—had it really been over a year ago now?

As if mirroring his thoughts, Alcyone sighed. "Some people tend to attract trouble." Her tired eyes flitted down the hall, and she sighed again.

DCI Rex Action was striding towards them, masculine and handsome and contemptible. He smiled, wide and sparkling, and saluted them with a file folder. "Just the team I was waiting to see!"

"We're in high demand," Lucas remarked, flat.

Action presented the file to Alcyone with a bow and a flourish, going so far as to tip his hat to her. "My dear inspector, DL-799 is expanding, positively _exploding_ , and just when I feared the trail was going cold."

"We finished interrogating Obadiah Sessions," she informed him, demure. "I'm afraid it wasn't a successful lead."

"No? Ah, well." His smile never faltered. "I thought him a bit _batty_ , if I'm to be at all honest, but we must treat all murder confessions with equal gravity, mustn't we?" He tapped the file in her hands with a square finger. "The results of my investigation at studio 4, _and_ I've compiled the data into one of those little chips you treasure so much. Do give it your best! We've a serial murderer at large now! Ah, but—" Action had been about to leave, much to Lucas's relief, only to turn at the last minute and grasp one of Alcyone's hands in his. Her eyebrows lifted, the most surprised he'd seen her in a while. His hackles went up immediately. "On my way here, the commissioner herself asked me to send you in when I saw you. Something of utmost importance, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," she agreed, though the softness had fled her voice and she was left soundly oddly robotic.

He released her and gave another bow, marching past them down the hall. The inspector sighed, rubbing her temple. "At this rate, I'll never see the inside of the Mystery Room today. Will you become familiar with the new information before I return?"

"Aye, you can count on me." But his blood was growing icy and his fingers felt stiff when he took the file. "The commissioner, eh? What... what d'you think she wants?" 

Alcyone shook her head. "I hope she forgives me if I'm rather more interested in returning to my work than discussing—oh, I need to manage this headache." She was rubbing her temple again. "A few minutes, Lucas."

They parted ways, and Lucas was left with the twisting feeling in his stomach. Just days ago, the commissioner had asked him about the Prof's capability, if he felt she were ready for more. And he'd—

He'd given her the best answer he had. Lucas straightened up, adjusting his hat. There was no reason for all this guilt. He'd still done the right thing. And who's to say the commissioner would take his advice so seriously, anyway?

There was a second element he'd forgotten though, and maybe it was his unusually close proximity to her that day that made him remember. What was Miss Hyde going to say about all this? The thought of her anger left him cold. 

He unlocked the Mystery Room himself for the second day in a row, slapping the file against his thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the person offering babies for a blaine dartwright cameo: do you want to fedex me or......


End file.
